I am surprised by joy.
I look around me, and I see a tapestry of blinding, effervescent color. Fabrics designed so dutifully, flora cautiously tethered together, ceramics of all shapes and sizes molded by weary hands. Every piece is part of this spectacular feast for the eyes, and I am so, so overwhelmed. I cannot fathom the reality of the now, and I wonder, am I dreaming? Is this truly my life?
I am reminded how very little and insignificant I am – my weight, my problems. Love is greater, it encompasses my unbelief. It is greater than me. I find it in the soulful eyes of strangers, in the little acts of faith of those I know nothing about, in their diligence.
I am always grateful for the humbling gift of photography. For teaching me to see(k) something greater than myself. To see others as more beautiful than I am. To see light in dark places.
Photographs make everything so real.
They take a moment so sacred, capture it, and preserve it so that we may be able to live out its divinity again and again. It may not make sense but we are comforted by the idyllic reality that once was but now is not.
We photograph the places where we leave bits of our hearts and souls in. We photograph the people we want to always stay. We photograph ourselves to see some sort of progress. We photograph because we are nostalgic creatures who need to be reminded that life is ephemeral, and nothing ever stays the same.
This is my life, and my God, I cannot believe I am living it.