Looking at Photos

Yosemite Summer

The year was 1983 and the Eurhythmics’ hit, Sweet Dreams are Made of This, was replaying on a continuous loop in my head.  My medium brown hair was frizzed into a not-so-stylish-on-me Afro that made my head look huge stuck as it was on my tall lanky body.  The frayed edges of my butt-hugging pair of skin-tight Levi cut-offs tickled my darkly tanned long legs.  Look at you checking out my legs coming right up outta my hiking boots, I thought as I looked at my husband’s hungry grin.  As an athlete primed for racing, he was barely breathing hard behind the camera.  I wore a blue and white plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, shirttails tied at the waist over a white tank top thinking I looked like quite the outdoor girl.  My left arm is wrapped around our oldest son, Brent with his baseball cap crooked way back on his Buster Brown haircut smelling of campfire smoke and sweat but looking proudly at the camera as he smiled and snuggled securely under my arm. Brian, who was five and two years younger than his older brother, had mischief in his eyes while he sat precariously on my lap—messy hair, dirty face and all.  

           

Our young family had just hiked up the Mist Trail in Yosemite National Park.  The trail winds almost straight up beside the cascades created by Vernal and Nevada Falls.  We stopped to rest, and for a photo opportunity, at a viewpoint that took in a small expanse of Yosemite Valley along with Yosemite Falls exuberantly bursting out and over the face of its granite cliff.  Outdoor girl I may have been, but I gratefully sat down still breathing hard from our trek and wiping the sweat dripping into my eyes.  I hugged my precious little treasures to my breast, smiled into the camera and nodded my head slightly:  Indeed, sweet dreams are made of this. 

Pat Conroy Inspiration

In My Reading Life, Pat Conroy speaks of the courage and insecurities writers face.  He also speaks of the necessity of solitude that I most definitely relate to.  Solitude allows me to replenish my soul.  Conroy’s words make me want to write.

            

Have you ever noticed how much noise there is in our lives?  Right now on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning, our next-door neighbor is mowing his lawn, a single bird is chirping in a nearby tree.  I hear a car engine racing too fast in a residential neighborhood sounding like a lone car racing around a track.  There is also an incessant hum or buzz or rush of air surrounding my ears with constant and close noise.  Occasionally, I hear a train whistle on the tracks along the 91 freeway and a jet as it rides the invisible sky road to Orange County airport.  This is why our trips to Montana are so glorious.  It’s actually quiet there and while there is noise, it’s the racket of a leaf falling from a tree, the breeze pushing it away from its home.  It’s the soft background babble of the creek next to our campsite; kids playing catch in the meadow near enough to be seen but not so close as to interrupt my mental peace.  Sometimes, hiking a trail, we’ll stop—“Sh.  Do you hear that?  It’s silence.”  It’s so quiet it refreshes my ears.  It’s so free of cement, traffic, people that my eyes relax and soak up the greens, browns, blues, surprises of reds and yellows.

            

I want to write.  I want solitude in which to do it.  I want nature outside my cabin window inviting my words from their hiding places.  I want my pencil always sharp so when words become clear, my pencil can cut them and weave them into something that is meaningful.  I want to write so that I can leave a part of myself behind when God calls me home.  I want my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren to know me as a writer.  To know who I was in words only I can express.