Mindful Photography

The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering. 

Virginia Woolf

The next couple months are going to be most interesting around here. We have a wedding in June and a baby coming in July. The baby part is easy. I'm not the one going through labor.  We readied the old cradle and stroller for baby visits and we wait for that child to appear. Already this grandparent gig is much easier than parenting.

But the wedding comes first. The wedding festivities six years ago for the baby-to-be kids was an incredible high and the one coming up holds all that promise as well. But, those who say the groom's mother has nothing to do? Phooey to you. Along side our wedding responsibilities like the rehearsal dinner and figuring out how to dress myself, we have family and friends coming from all over the country. Lots of work going on to get the homestead ready and plan for good times and good food while we gather.

For years you sit around scratching your belly saying, "Ya know, Pa. Someday we should fix that."

That someday has arrived. With all the details.  If I get everything on these lists done before everyone arrives, I can have great fun when they do. And I do like to have fun.

For sanity purposes, I decided to take a Mindful Photography class this past month. I completed the course last Friday and I have to say that along with my daily poetry/essay reading and journal writing, I have retained some sense of stability. My husband might argue with that long statement, but what does he know.

Mindful Photography.  Contemplative and Miksang Photography. Miksang is a Tibetan word that translates to "Good Eye." That means we declutter our brains and just shoot away -- or something like that. Pure perception and straight shooting. Not worrying about the light and the perfect setting and all that jazz. Instead focusing on what we are seeing when we open our minds and see.

Sounds like how I, not being a photographer and barely knowing how to use my camera, normally take my photos. One moment, one shot. Similar to writing a shitty first draft. (God bless you Anne Lamott for that most appropriate term.)

But this mindfulness also involved the contemplative part. As said by Christine Vatters Paintner in her book Eyes of the Heart, this is a receptive practice, where we allow grace to enter and open ourselves to hear and ponder.

Perfect escape for me.  The photography practice has offered a chance to breathe. I'm grateful.

Led by a very accomplished and organized teacher who assured me I wasn't the first intimidated by this venture, this Put It On Auto and Shoot person experienced great joy in the process. Here are a few things I found on my outings.

Just What Is

Color and Shapes

Miksang Pattern

The Ordinary

Love's Equivalent

Openness

Fullness

From a Child's Point of View

I'm a rookie, but now I'm a more mindful rookie. Calmed. In the moment.

Back to my lists. Mindfully. And if anybody wants to clean toilets...

I Give

A woman my age is not supposed to be attractive or sexually appealing. I just get kinda tired of that.

Kathleen Turner

Okay, I give. Watched Facebook for photos posted of my son and me dancing at his wedding. Haven't found one yet that flatters me, so figure, perhaps I'm just not in a flatter-available posture these days.

But, off to the next adventure. Middle son's college graduation. I can only hope that after a year or more of listening to me, you will understand that I don't seem to live up to my expectations in these photos.

The song choice? The Beatles - In My Life.
Did we have fun? You Betcha Baby.
(And the site where I would now play that song while you look at the photos? Can't find it. Tired, I guess.)

Thank you, Busy Traveler, for the photos.

The proud mom and dad of the groom, awaiting the bride. We so love her.

The family.

The Groom's Cake - the Fraternity House, less the beer cans. Notice the old red photo in the background. Bob and me, 1978. I recently learned that the reason all our photos from the 70's turned red is because of the paper used. You can't imagine all the fun comments from my son's friends on his dad's long hair.
A friend described the picture tonight at dinner - the hippie and the Amish girl. Oh, who said compatibility comes from sameness? Nowadays, the roles seem reversed.

As some of you may know, my mom, the Old?Who?Me? lady suffered a severe fall at the lake. I'm happy to report she is home just today, safely, and recovering.

I have so many great photos. Fodder for the next year. I remember She Writes, who posted one post of her son's wedding, equipped with a long series of photos. I plan to do that in one swoop, but I never seem to do what I plan. Is that a midlife prerogative?

When I get all the pictures, I say. So far behind in my blogging. I promise to catch up soon. Onward.

Meanwhile - 8 Days Later

Marriage is a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters in prose.
Beverley Nichols

When I last left you, a wedding lingered before us. Four days after the event, I'm still exhausted, but after a fairly good night's sleep, wanted to offer a glimpse of the festivity.

Such fun we had. Such laughter. Old friends, fun family. Beautiful weather. And the newly married off on their honeymoon. Below, a couple of photos. Will catch up more as soon as I catch my breath.

I wish. Ian's 18th birthday last night, Senior Awards tonight, baseball games Friday and Saturday, my mom visiting. Graduation in Arizona next week. Dream on, Julie. Dream on.

P.S. I will post a photo of me in my dress as soon as I get one that isn't all blurred. That IS me on the right in the top photo. Purple lady.

Photos by B. Schraeder, F. Fredericks, H. Conrad, me

Launching a Life - Almost Wordless Wednesday

RPT FROM 100 LOVE SONNETS

By Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way

than this: Where “I” does not exist, nor “You”, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.