Quite often I don’t know the words I’m going to write, as quite often I don’t know what I need to photograph. Yet I know I have to, I need to, I feel it within. There is this incessant pull which tells me – go ahead, write, photograph. And so I listen and heed and write and photograph because both allow me to say what I feel inside – this is one of those times.
As a photographer I’m constantly observing, wanting to figure out what I need to capture next through my lens and within the frame. I’m always on the watch for new subjects. Sometimes I find them, sometimes I don’t. What often I gravitate towards (as most photographers I know also do) are old people and little children. Yesterday and today as I was rearranging portraits of people I’ve made across the last two years or so, I kept thinking why this affinity? Why children and old people? Sure we usually don’t go wrong with those photographs, but that is being rather simplistic – there must be more to it, more than meets the eye, figuratively speaking.
That is when thoughts started buzzing around in my head, and to get them into some semblance of order, here I am doing what I always do – write. Writing allows me to express myself without interruption, to figure out what my own reasons are, however right and wrong those might be. About children I’ll write some other time – let this post be about the not-so-young. As I more often than not do, I talk to people whom I photograph. The old are astonished when I sit at talk to them often for an hour or so; they are surprised and quizzical when I ask them about what they do, about their life, about things which perhaps have no meaning for most. After all what would I want to do with their lives? Initially I would chat with them because it would allow them to open up and I would hopefully make a good photograph. But now I speak with them because I find them enigmatic, each and every one of them, and to listen to them about life (and their lives) is edifying to say the least. In the times I have been with them what comes forth is sometimes wistfulness, a twinge of regret perhaps, a bit of sorrow, often satisfaction at having led a full life, but usually there will always be an expression of melancholic loneliness that there is no one there for them.
The sub-conscious operates in strange ways – since yesterday I have had thoughts of Lewis Carroll’s “Through the Looking-Glass” in my mind – now I understand why. For those who haven’t read it, the book is a sequel to ”Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” and a sort of mirror image of Wonderland – it uses frequent changes in time and spatial directions as a plot device, with many mirror themes, including time running backwards, and so on. So I stare through the looking-glass as I’m doing know, I see a mirror and I see the reflection of my life in the photographs I create, and I reminisce.
Their photographs, their stories remind me about the times I could have spent with my parents but missed out on those moments because I prioritized incorrectly. They tell me again of times I took my parents for granted yet was affronted when they did the same. We expect selfishly, shamelessly from them, yet are upset when they expect even a little from us. It has happened with me, I’ve done it and I say so openly. Have I been the proverbial prodigal son? Have I even been a “good” son always? Have I done all that I could for them each and every moment? The answer is an unequivocal no. And I also know I’m not alone in this. But that is, as is said, history, and it’s been much time since I changed all of that. What you and I can change is the present, the now, this moment, and in doing that we shape the future, our future. And “time running backwards” as Lewis Carroll said, I guess I could word it differently: Life comes a full circle, you see. We are children, and we yearn for our parents, then adults and yearn for and chase much in the world, ironically most of which doesn’t really matter, then parents maybe, and then children yet again in the twilight years and yearn for the touch and care of our children who are now, in some way, our parents.
Maya Angelou said it so beautifully: “I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life. I’ve learned that making a “living” is not the same thing as making a “life”. I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back. I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision. I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn. I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
So this post is for your parents and mine. Let them never forget how you feel. Wherever they might be, and wherever you are. Express that gratitude. Keep them in your prayers and your deeds – now and forever. Remember you need to do it in the now, at this moment, which will then become forever. In reality, time doesn’t run backwards; it happened only in:
Through the Looking-Glass.
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