Thursday, November 8, 2012

Living with the questions

When I tell people I'm a photographer, the next question is usually quite predictable: "What sort of stuff do you shoot?" they ask. And, sadly, I've never been very good at answering that question.
The most accurate answer is probably "whatever calls to me," but that sounds pretty woo-woo; most people immediately assume from that that I'm not a professional, as we all know most professionals tend to specialize.

But the truth is, I really can't predict.  Take this image, for example: it started with a curtain blowing in the breeze -- I didn't even have my camera with me at the time, so took it with my cellphone. For some reason the waft of the curtain made me think of angel's wings, and, well, one thing led to another and this is the result.  Is she a Madonna or an angel?  Is she a response to the coming season, or just a happy accident?

I can't really answer those questions.  And perhaps I don't need to? As I age, I am beginning to understand that it's okay to live with the questions; to allow the answers to remain a mystery.  This was what called to me; this was what emerged.  Perhaps, instead of questioning the process, it is enough to accept and enjoy the journey and end result.

But the miracle of it does bring to mind a poem read to us this past weekend by David Whyte; it's by the Spanish poet, Antonio Machado:

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—blessed illusion!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—blessed illusion!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old sorrows.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—blessed illusion!—
that a fiery sun was shining
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—blessed illusion!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.


1 comment:

Maureen said...

Your image would be lovely for a Christmas poem.

I'm thinking of writing a new one but my inspiration keeps coming from so many other places. I've been writing a lot of poetry and have an idea to try to write a chapbook based on asylums.