dear writer with camera

it’s how the letter started.
dear writer with camera

and it made me smile to sense that connection in another so far away. another i may never meet yet somehow know. another that shares a passion so strong that it begins to shape and take control of his life. steer him, guide him, lead him down the path he never imagined.

dear writer with camera.
me too.

it’s good to know we are not alone. those two short sentences i will not soon forget. the time that was taken to type it up, to send it out, to comment and nod his head in agreement for the love affair with photography. yes, me too.

when i look at this photo it makes me feel like a kid. the freedom that existed then. the belief in truth and honesty i had then. then is not now. but this photo is very good for my soul today.

recently a friend of mine threw out the question “do you still exist?” as he sensed my hibernation. (my turning toward the light to blind myself from reality. my way of coping. protecting. keeping what is sacred tucked safely inside.)

yes, i do still exist. in my optical illusion sort of way. good friend know that i always resurface, but they also know i can hold my breathe for long amounts of time underwater.

it’s pretty under there.

at midnight, twenty-three floors above the city lights of houston, someone asked me if i meditated. i probably should considering the weight of death and divorce i’m carrying with me these days. (pick your poison, they both taste nasty going down.) while staring out the window i had to admit the strong need for balance. for mental quietness. but i also had to laugh thinking of elizabeth gilbert saying “well, i nap. does that count?” yes, i let my eyes soften their focus, i breathe in breathe out, and i require alot of time lying flat on my back staring at the ceiling. 

it’s where i’ve been.
out gathering thoughts.

dreaming of being a writer with a camera.
or a photographer with a book.