I have this thing about pictures.
I love photographs. One of my very best friends is a photographer and several pals are, too. For a moment in college, photography seemed like a good fit…except I couldn't remember f-stops, processing times…little things.
Still, captured, crafted, hand-made, swirling images dominate my thoughts and memories. Sounds, smells, tastes, and movement play a rich Greek chorus in my remembering, but scenes – visuals – take the lead.
That's probably why I hauled three giant tubs of photographs to Georgia- even after sorting and weeding them out before we sold the house. I'm now down to the equivalent of one tub of photographs. It was a painful sorting process.
You'll find books of photographs or illustrations of people I don't know from era's before I arrived on the planet. Photographs and illustrations of or by my kids. Black and white photographs. Kodachrome. Infrared. Iconic. Tiny. Obscure subjects in pen, ink, crayon.
Abandoned people. Nature. Books. Communities.
The underdog. Kansas' Konza prairie. Rachel's tiny exquisite watercolors.
Today marks a midcourse correction. The day when I understood completely…for one shining moment that I was loved and had value just because. There were no tears. Just a, "huh. is this what most people feel like all the time?"
When it hit me, I saw the faces of my kids and friends around the world. My sister. My aunties. Old Fester, the Wonderdog.
The faces were beautiful – some aged like mine and some still quite young and unweathered.
And I did not mind that my face reveals the connect-the-dots of hours running with Katie, or cycling with Rhonda and Jo; or playing "MerMama" in the pool with Madi and Kenan.
For once, being me was a pleasure – truly hopeful and content. Peaceful and full of color.
Blog Bonus: Paul Simon's KODACHROME
CBS News Sunday Morning featuring the last KODACHROME photo ever processed
