to the dance of life
I had planned on joining High Calling Focus with some silhouette shots today, but nature intruded on my plan.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
Yesterday, we trekked to church in the rain. By the time we left, snow graced our bit of the world.
How often do you get to see cacti covered in snow?
I’m up at The Master’s Artist today reflecting on an artist’s work from an art festival my husband and I attended a couple of weekends ago.
A glimpse:
"The artist photographed mundane, even dead, objects–weeds, grass, dead
branches. He zoomed in until you could barely identify the original
subject. Before he printed his photographs, he prepared the canvas by
painting it with a glimmery, shining substance. When you viewed the
dead and mundane, the glimmer of the other shone through, giving the
ordinary something beautiful and extraordinary, imparting something of
the essence of life."
Fall ushers in new beginnings, fresh starts, and sharpened pencils. Perhaps it’s because of the leftovers from school days–backpacks unscathed by cement draggings, pens full of ink, blank notebooks ripe with promising stories. Or perhaps it is the cool breeze that releases the imagination pent-up by the sweltering heat.
It’s also about pumpkin spice lattes, but that’s a different subject altogether.
This week, the writers of Aiming Low have issued a photography challenge: aim low. It’s all about perspective, they said. So I took my camera to the arboretum and looked to my feet.
And there were pumpkins, all promising the imagination of Halloween, the catch of new stories, and, of course, the makings of a great latte.
They lined up, parading themselves for my delight.
In these simple joys (who doesn’t adore pumpkins–there’s pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin seeds, have I mentioned the pumpkin spice latte?), I’m reminded that while I aim high in my writing itself, I aim low in my expectations.
Let me ‘splain: it’s up to me to create a great story. It’s up to me to pursue every opportunity for learning and for publishing/marketing I can. After all, I write so that others won’t feel alone. I hope my stories will resonate with others. But I can’t hang my every word on high expectations of fame and fortune. My writing interacts with readers, but it doesn’t depend on readers (or, more specifically, numbers of them).
So I aim low.
In other news, my husband took a handful of 20-week belly shots. Here’s one, in keeping with our aim low theme, of my ripening belly.
Can you believe I’m halfway done roasting this coffee bean?
And one more aim low shot courtesy of my husband’s eye:
Don’t you adore pathways? They might lead anywhere!
See if you can guess which towel is mine and which towel is my husband’s.
For more Popinjay photos on domestic, click here.
As an artist, confidence is a tricky thing. It means being able to take criticism, knowing when to change your work based on that criticism and when to smile and ignore it. It means knowing when to hold back and polish and when to risk the public eye. It means knowing when to trash a piece and when to hold on to it for dear life. It means pressing on in the midst of rejections. And more rejections. Sometimes it means knowing when to compose silences and rest from your art.
Find more photos portraying confidence here.
Also, my piano’s name is Claire.
Or, the end of the world as we know it.
Or, why I haven’t been blogging as much: explained.
At the High Calling Blogs, Claire challenged us to submit photos freeze-framing a particular stage in life. I can’t hold my secret any longer.
Note: For this picture, I had to shower early. On days I don’t have to teach, I usually don’t shower until my husband calls to let me know he’s on his way home from work. This is particularly painful in summer in Texas as I carry the stench from my morning workout throughout the day. Laziness. Pure laziness.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. She’s reading. What’s so bizarre about that? But, dear cyber friend, it’s not the fact that I’m reading. It’s what I’m reading.
actual books from my shelves
Growing up, I read anything I could get my hands on–Janette Oke, Agatha Christie, The Count of Monte Cristo, shampoo bottles. But I categorically refused two genres: sci-fi (although fantasy, such as Madeleine L’Engle and C.S. Lewis were okay–I was a good Christian girl, after all) and horror.
Then I met The Man Who Would Become My Husband (dibs on the title). During his formative years, his family (prompted by his grandmother, if I have the story correctly) bonded over Star Trek. (Note: he never attended a conference or dressed as a character.) He still loves Star Trek and most things sci-fi. This was almost a Deal Breaker for us. After all, sci-fi is weird. (I turned a blind eye to the books I loved in high school, namely Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, and The Illustrated Man. Also to the fact that Sweeney Todd is and has been my favorite musical. Song and dance do wonders of covering up serial killers.) Before we met, I had watched a handful of X-Files episodes at a friend’s house and part of one of the Star Trek movies (although all I remember is whales being beamed up, Scottie; I think I hid in the kitchen under the auspices of socializing for most of the movie).
Then he made me watch some, and I have to admit (albeit begrudgingly) that some of the shows I’ve added to my faves list are of the sci-fi genre. Like Eureka (my foray into sci-fi because of the main character who says things like “So why don’t we just call it a death ray” to the crazy scientist who gives said death ray an even crazier scientific name. You had to be there). And Firefly. And, yes, Battlestar Galactica.
Fine. Some sci-fi, weird though it may be, is good. Good characters. Good themes. Well-written. Fine.
Then I met one of my two closest writing friends. And, yes, she writes horror. Good horror. Good characters. Good themes. Well-written. (Have I mentioned that another fave TV show is Dexter? I don’t know if that constitutes as horror, but it’s about a serial killer, and there’s lots of blood. And no song and dance.) (Oh, and this particular close writing friend happens to be the instigator of Popinjay. As well as a lot of trouble.)
Sigh. Is there no respect for a person’s prejudice these days?
The other close writing friend? She writes paranormal. (Really there’s no point in linking to her blog here since she only blogs as often as I meet a friendly squirrel. That’s rare, folks, to clarify. Rare.)
I’m not sure what it says about me that the two of my fellow writers who get me most are horror and paranormal specialists.
So thanks to these influences, I’ve expanded my horizons, and all that jazz. The extent of this insanity: I even have a sci-fi and a horror story in me. (Both from my dreams, which have always been vivid and horrific. Last night’s dream featured a purple python who ate a small boy. For someone with a phobia to that particular [and Satanic] reptile, this is as horrifying as it gets.)
And there you have it, folks. Why a picture of me reading H.G. Wells and Stephen King is bizarre.
This post has been sponsored by Popinjay, a fine roundup of amateur photographers everywhere (and who isn’t an amateur photographer these days?). This week’s word: bizarre.
I slouched back into the seat, feet propped on the dashboard (don’t tell my dad), book in hand. I felt dirty, but relaxed.
The water bottle in the cup holder started rattling. My husband turned down the radio.
“Do you hear that?”
Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. The car kept time in a syncopated rhythm to our drive home. Still driving, on the highway, though half pulled over onto the shoulder, my husband opened his door and looked at the back tire.
“I think it’s flat,” he said. He closed the door and parked on a stretch of highway between Evant, TX (population 371) and the greater metropolitan area of Hamilton (population 2,922).
Or, we stopped between two cemeteries.
On our left, the Pilgrim’s Rest, for weary souls such as ours:
On our right, a rest for other wearied travelers:
Chris got out of the car, inspected the offending tire, and returned to confirm his initial diagnosis.
“It’s flat,” he said.
Naturally, we first made sandwiches.
Side note: If you ever need to have a ripped tire, do so when mostly stocked with leftovers from the camping trip. (I always buy too much.)
After a repast of ham and turkey on organic multi-grain bread (with omega-3s and unbleached flour), topped with cheddar cheese and Dijon mustard, and finished off with orange creme and cherry vanilla sodas (also organic), my husband got out to change the tire.
“Funny thing,” I said. “I never learned how to change a spare.” I’m sure my dad tried to teach me and I decided to play with my imaginary friends instead.
“Good time to learn.”
I grabbed our Nikon. “Je suis artiste,” I said.
Events like these need documenting. Now, if we were both heaving and hefting, who would take the pictures?
Big, strong, sexy man changing tire-gone-wild
I snapped photos as he unloaded the camping gear from the trunk.
“You’re a big help,” he told me.
Chris soon had the spare on, and we were ready to head toward Hamilton to search out a tire store brave enough to be open on Memorial Day.
(We found one–a John Deere sales and repair/used tire sales/vehicle sales shop. I think there may have been a candy shop on the side. We drove in accompanied by Reba’s “The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter” on their radio.)
Mr. Motorcycle Man waves goodbye to us
The End
The End
She slides into base, and she steals second!
For the second week, I’ve stolen Popinjay from Michelle to host here. The team’s after me, so I don’t expect my glory will last much longer. I’m on the run. Bound to end up with Al Capone, John Dillinger, and Bonnie.
Until then, let’s enjoy the show, shall we?
A reminder about Popinjay, as defined by Michelle:
pop⋅in⋅jay–noun–a person given to vain, pretentious displays and empty
chatter.In other words, blogging.
Isn’t that what this personal blogging is all about? Me. Me. Me. For
this photo challenge, that’s perfect. We’re going to dig inside of
ourselves and do some concept photography.I’m going to give you a word and you’re going to take a photo of
something that describes the concept of the word.
And, again, no silly rules about pictures you can or can’t use, such as kids or pets.
Today’s word: gaudy.
From dictionary.com:
gaud·y
–adjective, gaud·i·er, gaud·i·est.
1. brilliantly or excessively showy: gaudy plumage.
2. cheaply showy in a tasteless way; flashy.
3. ostentatiously ornamented; garish.
I have to admit, I struggled with this one (which is why I’m posting a day late). No one thinks of themselves as gaudy (unless I piled on all my scarves), so a self-portrait was out. Neither do we think our own homes gaudy.
Then I remembered, the adjective gaudy was derived from the man Gaudi, a Spanish architect most known for his (unfinished) cathedral in Barcelona, La Sagrada Família.
So, in keeping with the architectural aspect, I give you my offering of gaudy.
And, as a bonus, the architectural piece my niece and I built:
I tell tales--tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones. Some call it compulsive lying. I call it writing.
