A Pattern of Words
One photograph a day to make the world spin a little slower.
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Golden sunshine competing with seasonal allergies.
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More missed focus, but you can’t beat Lyte’s expression.
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I don’t like showing photographs I consider a failure. The missed focus, the weird coloring in the trees. I’m a perfectionist. This photo and those cherries share a sour taste, indeed.
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Today I realized it’s been about four and a half years – FOUR AND A HALF YEARS – since I’ve been able to call myself am actual, working photographer. Someone who is using their camera and regularly taking photographs. I’m so rusty it isn’t even funny – at this point I can’t tell what is me being tired and always in a hurry, me being out of practice, or just equipment that needs to be replaced.
This is the summer. My camera is officially living on the highboy by the front door and I’m trying to take photos every day. I’m also trying not to be on social media (no, not trying. I will succeed) so I’m not entirely sure what to do with those photos. I think there’s something important about not just choosing and editing, but curating them somehow. Creating a record of any improvements and triumphant moments captured.
So here’s my space. Here’s my chance. Let’s do it. To make it official, let’s write out the goal, shall we? Choose one photo from each day and minimal editing. I’d like to move away from the filters I’ve been using for the past few years, seeing as I’ve never been truly happy with them. I would also like to ditch the perfection of photoshop, so color/lighting/contrast/cropping tweaks only to push myself to really get it right in the moment.
The kids are already confused by how often the camera is making an appearance.
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The high heat of summer is upon us. Alleyways, once open and bare during winter, crowd on either side with overabundant growth. Neighbors’ compost bins flood with persistently trailing gourd blooms, ivy spreads its clawing tendrils up every back gate, and cheerful blossoms wave friendly faces at each other from every corner. My sunflowers are just beginning to raise their heads to the sun, while droning insects immediately set to work on them.
Exercising in the stuffy basement never seemed as gloomy, so I take to the streets and the alleyways, my iwatch pushing me forward with its steady pedometer. We live in a beautiful old neighborhood, each house boasting at least a hundred years under its belt. Many are tired, with lead paint gatoring on worn siding, wavy windows sealed shut, or sagging porches echoing of distant days. But it’s like they’re hiding under outdated clothing and many are springing out with new energy as families chip away the outdated bits with love to coax out new life. Old siding is being torn away or scraped off, new porches and porte cocheres raised up, and boarded up or painted transom windows resurrected.
The vast majority of the houses began life with the same footprint: a steady foursquare. Now it’s a delight to walk through the alleyways and peep into backyards to see how each home evolved into a different shape. A summer porch here, a new kitchen there. Doors that lead to nowhere as homes backtracked. Garages that collapsed eventually and left behind random landing pads. Additions built onto additions, each floor a slightly differing level and material. As the houses are cleaned up and revitalized, these different additions come together to form a unique and beautiful home. My favorite bits are the gorgeous details that new constructions never see these days. The old octagonal window winking from the attic, teethlike eave brackets lining the roof, metallic roof ornamentations, and carefully preserved stained glass windows.
Our house is an anomaly within the neighborhood in that it lacks many of these details. I haven’t decided yet whether they were stripped off, or never applied. Rumor is that our house was one of the first ones built on our street- sometimes I feel like maybe it was the test run. The first model that laid the foundation for all the fancier houses. Other days, I’m convinced the ugly siding is hiding beautiful aspects of our house’s charming personality. Patience, I tell myself. Peeling away the layers takes insane amounts of patience, especially when my days are occupied by small children. In the meantime, I putter in my garden and lay the groundwork for a beautiful yard.
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No matter how prepared I am to start again, blank walls create an unbelievably difficult hurtle for me. The act of drilling holes, finding screws, deciding where to hang what…I tell myself I’m ready, then the artwork finds itself stacked against the walls for months. I carry pieces from room to room. I consult my mom, my sister, and anyone who walks into the house. I find another place to set the frames aside “until there’s time to pull out the drill.”
That moment I finally make a hole, it becomes real. Hanging it up, trusting the frame fastener to hold up its end of the bargain…suddenly the house begins to feel like a home and walls seem more friendly and connected to the room. Why did I wait so long?
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I’m filled with gratitude that we once again get to live in an area that’s so pretty, whose mountains make my heart skip a beat every time I look at them, whose sky seems so rich and colorful. I missed this.
We’re renting right now. The search for a house seems interminably long and every few hours I refresh the website, hoping something has come up. In the meantime, this neighborhood brims with interesting nooks and fun crannies. More urban than anything I’ve lived in since leaving Chicago, it offers a coffee shop around the corner, a smoothie bar whose bright signage calls to me, a local grill with deliciously hot brownies for cold nights, and a hip rock climbing gym I wish I had the solo time to utilize. Most importantly, a long greenway with endless running room for the kids, noisy trains chugging by, smooth sidewalks perfect for scootering, a sprawling restaurant with outdoor seating, and a skateboarding wave ramp that delights the boys.
This house is five minutes from my sister’s house – four if you don’t hit traffic – but that seems insanely far away after living across the street for years. The boys don’t understand the concept of not seeing each other every day, multiple times a day, but many days we just can’t manage hauling all the kids back and forth more than once, especially with all the snow clogging the roads. Both my sister and I keep finishing every one of our conversations with “A HOUSE JUST NEEDS TO COME UP FOR SALE RIGHT HERE. RIGHT ON THIS STREET.” Please, God?
Meanwhile, I’m trying to enjoy the slower pace of life that comes along with living in a rental, with only a fraction of our belongings, no DIY home projects to occupy my time, and snow keeping us home more than usual. Vincas is working long hours as he sets up his new office and comes home later than late during the week – usually past midnight, when I’m already buried under a mound of blankets. This means I’ve been spending even more time with the kids than my normal SAHM job description. We’re getting into a good groove. Slowly. But I’m hoping this phase doesn’t last too long. Thankfully, Vincas only works four days a week, so we are getting delightfully long weekends with some together-time. January is ticking by and February holds all my hopes tucked between its paws.
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Crunchy cold underfoot, pink cheeks dry and scabby, socks on and wet socks off, another load of laundry, “I need to pee, Mama!” unzip those snow pants fast, boots upside down to let the ice drain, hot tea and cheese on toast, then back to zipping all the coats for another round of snow. Did I put the wet wash in the dryer? More drenched socks. Another set of dirty footprints. “He threw snow down my coat! Make it stop!” Zip, unzip. Cold wind blowing through the open door and trying to convince small children to come inside finally as lazy snowflakes start to fall again. 
