Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Seeking the light
London, ON, May 2009
I opened my laptop last night and stared into the screen, the cursor blinking at me as if it were mocking me to finally write something. After what seemed like an eternity, I closed it and put my head down for the night. The words just didn't want to come.
It's the first time this has happened since we got the call about my dad, and as I drifted off to sleep I wondered if and when it would happen again. Beyond losing the people closest to me, this may rank as my biggest fear. My writer's voice represents who I am. It's also my primary means of keeping this insane carnival ride - otherwise known as my life - spinning. It's how I provide for my family, and how I keep myself whole when the world around me is anything but.
So I was thankful when I woke up this morning, grabbed the laptop's lid and dove into a document, any document. I could still write, still create, still live. I just needed to learn that my new normal may include the occasional moment when my voice will go silent. And that's perfectly fine.
About this photo: I often capture mournful moments not because I want to bring anyone down, but because I need to understand the full range of life to better appreciate what I've got. To wit, a picture of a homeless woman shooting drugs in broad daylight makes me appreciate my family that much more, while a perspective of a crumbling piece of urban infrastructure teaches me to treasure the home my wife and I have built.
Light-piercing-the-night photos have also figured in my past, including this one taken immediately below my parents' home. Scenes like this challenge me to seek the light even when I'd rather curl up in silence in the shadows for a bit until I'm ready to once again find my voice and carry on.