“Don’t say you don’t have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Teresea, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.” – Life’s Little Instruction Book, compiled by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Having spent a few days of the last week scuba diving (it would have been the whole week had it not been for a rather violent illness that knocked me out on Wednesday) several creatures come to mind when thinking of Lost in the Details. The first is called a Toad Fish. He looks similar to a scorpion fish, highly camouflaged to protect him from predators. All these “details” make it very difficult to see his features.
Toad Fish
Toad Fish
Many other creatures find hiding places in the details, like this eel:
Here is the cropped version:
Those who do not weep, do not see. Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
So many thoughts, and no words to say them with. I’ve been befuddled, perplexed and even fearful. I don’t know if it is right to share publicly what is personal family trauma. If it happened to me and I want to write about it, do I have an obligation to others involved to keep my trap shut?
I’ve been struggling with this for weeks now. I’ve started several posts that I have discarded. I have theories up the yingyang, philosophies that would astound Sophocles, and ideas that would curl most people’s hair. But knowing if I have the right to tell what I think is as illusive as the fairy basslet fish I’ve been trying to photograph all week.
This conundrum has silenced my writing wit for the past several weeks. It has broken my heart and left me on my knees begging God to wave a magic wand over the individual who has me in such straights. No, it is not hubs nor my children. It is my brother.
I’ve written letters to him I will probably never send. I believe, rightly or wrongly I don’t know, that something happened to him when he was very young. And it was irreparable. A brilliant mind was shattered, and the soul that was left was plunged into a life of unimaginable misery. I don’t know the complete truth, but would dearly love to hear it. Maybe I’m being a simpleton. Maybe I’m the one with the problem, unable to believe that someone could stray so far down a horrific path without just cause. I don’t know what to believe, and I am extremely short on answers and wisdom. I only know that it is so painful to watch him suffer, even if it is his own doing. It’s even more difficult to acknowledge that not only is it not up to me to save him, but understanding that even if it were, I could not.
And that leaves me with prayer. For whatever happens, the answer will be in prayer.
A little lie can travel half way 'round the world while Truth is still lacing up her boots. Mark Twain
It’s been awhile since I’ve posted. No flowers to shoot, and the weather is dull and grey, much as my mood. February has sunk into my bones like the chill of a icy winter’s day and I long for some sunny weather to take hold. There is much to trouble me, although I am not at liberty at the moment to post publicly about it. Suffice it to say, the term black sheep cannot begin to describe my angst.
Yesterday however, I received a delightful email from my mothers cousin. He is my first cousin once removed, I believe, being the child of my grandfathers identical twin brother. But he happens to be in possession of some of my grandfathers old photographs, and I cannot begin to describe the joy I felt in looking through them.
My grandfather was a wiley sort. He was a North Dakota farm boy, and being an identical twin with a hankering for mischief, you can imagine what sorts of things he got up to. There was the story about he and his twin at the age of 7 or so climbing up on top of the barn roof, and staying there all day while they watched everyone below searching the fields for them in an increased state of panic. Such were the things of daily life. But as he grew older, he decided he was not content to be a “farm boy,” and after a rather stout disagreement with his father, he packed his bags and hitched trains to the west coast where he bunked with his father’s sister–who happened to be a teacher–until he graduated high school–he was 16 when he left.
He made his way to Fairbanks Alaska, where he worked cutting roads with high pressure water hoses. He unearthed two woolly mammoths doing this work, and stopped long enough to cut a portion of the pelt from each of them to bring back with him.
I don’t know where he got into photography along the way. But there are many pictures that are simply amazing. The one I’ve included in the post he obviously didn’t take, since he is the subject, but it is quite interesting all the same. The other photos are of things around Alaska that he found interesting. I guess that is how he ended up doing reconnaissance in WWII; his love of photography. I am saddened by the accident of his death. His plane crashed upon a coral landing strip on Bougainvilla Island in the South Pacific, and the details of the crash are stomach turning. My mother was not even born yet.
But I feel like the love of photography somehow made it’s way to me, passed down by the Grace of God.
When I no longer thrill to the first snow of the season, I’ll know I’m growing old.
-Lady Bird Johnson
Last week, I posted about the challenge of keeping the squirrels off the bird feeder. I pulled it into the center of the deck, and watched as they climbed the pole. So, I took the soap dispenser out there and liberally coated the pole with dish soap. This resulted in some hilarious antics, and I’m sad to say that I did not get any pictures, as we had company, and I couldn’t stand at the window and ignore the guests. Not only the squirrels, but the birds found the pole too slippery and slidey to hold on to, and animal cirque du soleil was born.
The next day however, the soap dried, and the squirrels were at it again. I’ve been to busy to do anything except give it a casual glance however, noting only that the bird seed feeder with the sunflower seed feed is almost empty.
Last night it snowed, and the birds flocked to the feeders this morning for a hearty breakfast. No squirrels to be seen, I guess they didn’t want to track snow back to their hideaways.
