Falling

Falling

Belmore Falls Fine Art Landscape Photography

I am certain that one day I am going to walk right off the edge of a cliff. I have wanted to go shoot photographs for a week. It is the only thing that makes my head stop its rummaging around in all my crazy, pulling out all sorts of bits and bobs, demanding I tell it what they are immediately (this most often occurs at around 3am).

I have scientific evidence that photography is good for me – while hooked up to a Neurofeedback machine my brain did excellent things when I thought about taking photos. Calming things, uncrazy things.

The downside (pun intended) is that I get so lost in it that I’ve a tendency to forget that I am on the edge of a rather steep gorge. 

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Thank you for reading my words and looking at my pictures. I am gradually filling up my blog. If you like my work I have much more at my Instagram account @onethousandwordsorless

 

 

Wrack & Ruin

Wrack & Ruin

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More than once of late I have wondered how it is that I am still here. I am not prone to exaggeration so believe me when I tell you that a series of storms tore through my life and left nothing but wrack and ruin. I would like to tell you a story of redemption, courage, unbreakable spirit. Alas, that is the stuff of one hour episodes, 8mm reels digested in two hours or less – stories tied in bows that allow us to skip away comforted by the fact that everything happens for a reason and it is all for the best really.

Reality is not literature. I do not know why these things happened and the compression of them in to a neatly tied package that I can point to and say “Ah so THAT is why” removes the reverence that must be held for what has been lost. What I do know is that I have learned a thing or two. I learned that I had sown my existence on rocks and thorns. I learned that I know nothing about anything with any certainty that stands up under a strong wind, and that hope is a slippery sliver of moon that can be annihilated.

My hope has occasionally been reclaimed in one thought: something has moved through my life with intention, and there is a fifty-fifty possibility that the thing is benevolent. Someone said to me yesterday that sometimes all that is left is to admit defeat. I have always been a brawler, when life knocks me down I stand back up, fists raised. And so, if I was ever to learn to surrender it all had to be torn down. I have been left with no other option but to bow my head and acknowledge that I am not in control and lack the strength to combat this force.

I sit among the ruins of this life, sifting through the rubble, holding things up to the light, inspecting their value and usefulness, determining whether they can withstand colliding storm fronts. I am seeking new foundations, things that will not bend or break under the most trying of conditions. Most is thrown to the wind, useless. Humility is all that has made the cut.

Regardless

Regardless

Piles Creek Walking Track Fine Art Photograpy

Despite it all, I still believe in love … or perhaps because of it. I know the depths a human heart is capable of. Somewhere we know it can only ever end in loss. Not one of us gets out alive.

I would prefer to have things worthy of the pain than to shroud myself in the protection of fear – because the hurt is only ever an alternate expression of love that has lost a place to rest, a homelessness of the heart. At the end of my life I would like to be able to say that I loved well, that I loved deeply, despite knowing that ultimately it could only ever lead to pain. That, I suspect, would be a life worth living.

It is a work in progress.

Altered

Altered

Moss Covered Rock and Log Reflected, Somersby Waterfall

I’ve lost my writing mojo. Having lived for so long in such an insular way – life throwing some doozies at me as it has – I have lost a sense of myself outside of this grief. And I am so tired of writing about that.

A friend and I chatted about this last week – the only other person I know who shares a similar loss. I asked him how I get outside it. How do I expand again? He told me he can’t recall when or how that happened for him. He just knows that one day he noticed that it had. And so I wait to exhale.

I hope that it comes soon. I miss my own company, I miss being present, I miss not feeling like there is something muting down the sound and experiences of life, I miss feeling connected to others. I miss a sense of being defined by so very much more. I miss joy.

That I am asking the questions is likely a sign that I am on the road back to all the things I miss, that I am forever changed is not disputable. As such, I’m not sure who it is that I am returning to but I do hope she has more expansive things to write about. Bigger thoughts, less self absorbed things to say.

Alone

Alone

Suspension Bridge Piles Creek Walking Track

“That horrifying moment when you’re looking for an adult but you realise that you are an adult. So you look around for an older adult. An adultier adult. Someone better at adulting than you.” 

Have you ever had one of those days when you’re looking around for someone to do the adulting and realise there’s only you? I’ve had one of those weeks. I’m usually perfectly independent and capable but some days (read:weeks) … well you just want to be taken care of. 


I have searched my home, looked under the couch cushions, through the washing basket, under my bed – everywhere – for someone to do the things for me. To cook me dinner because I’ve had a bad day, tell me they’ve put the washing on, talk to the annoying (and a bit rude if you don’t mind me saying) parking ranger, balanced the alarming books, listened to the reasons I’m crying (regardless of their varying levels of rationality), put on my favourite movie and kindly told me to put my feet up. 


It has, rather aptly, ended with me having given myself a mild concussion in a wayward climbing incident. And the realisation that nobody is coming, and it is a very childish thought, that you are actually an adult and should probably just get on with it. Adulting sucks. 

Inside Out

Inside Out

Waterfall Girakool Walking Track

Every moment happens twice: inside and outside, and they are two different histories”~ Zadie Smith, White Teeth

 

I have no interest in your opinion of the weather, or traffic. Sure, tell me the outside story – but only for context. What I want to know about is the inside story.


Is your heart still broken, or is it patched back together by love? Does it have a scar that runs across its width and breadth that will never fully heal – or have you found a way to live again?

I want to know what lights you up. There is no greater joy than to watch a person ignite from the inside. What lights them is less relevant than the warmth that radiates outward as they speak. There is no greater beauty than watching a person’s laugh lines etch across the corners of their eyes as their lips turn upward in to a smile. 


I want to know what leaves you under the covers unable to move for fear that a single step more will break you for good. There is no greater honour than being handed another’s grief. I am interested in your humility, not your humiliation. If you hand me your heart I will hold it with care. Tenderly, so as not to do any further damage. I want to know what is behind what I can see, the beauty that lurks.


I’ve just never been much for small talk