lessons from an oyster

I'm a feeling person.

A deeply feeling person.

I don't see beauty, I feel beauty. I don't hear music, I feel music.

I think I'm lucky that way. Sometimes. 

Sometimes though, I feel too much.

But understanding how light works,

and losing myself in the wonder of it all is my therapy,

my happy place.

I'm speaking of photography of course.

The word photography comes from the Greek word, phos meaning light and graphos meaning writing ...

so loosely translates to 'writing with light',

although most photographers prefer the term 'painting with light'.

I prefer, 'writing with light' because it more adequately describes the crafting of a narrative portrait.

How beautiful, writing with light. 

Portraits that tell a story.

'Lightfall' (thank you Robin Wade for the title), is one image in a series of images I'm working on to visually document my journey through grief. 

Lost for words to adequately describe the depth and breadth of this abyss, my camera has become, 

more than ever before, my means of expression. 

When an oyster is wounded or to protect itself from the pain or discomfort of an imbedded foreign particle,

it lays down layer upon layer of nacre, or mother of pearl.

A simple biological process that gifts us with precious pearls.

Grief is painful. Beyond words. It wounds deeply and profoundly. 

Perhaps though,

if I were to lay down layer upon layer of Love and Light,

I too can produce pearls.

From a wounded heart.

Perhaps.

The dancer on Pointe Ballet shoes.

The breathe taking beauty of the dance is a gift of the dancers' often painful discipline.

Life.

Perhaps.

My head is full of stories, and when I can, I intend to write them out with light.

Everyone has a story. I'm telling mine.