We went up to the Albany area to visit our family for Bill’s birthday. Long story short, Bill got pneumonia and instead of having a party, we wound up in the emergency room at the hospital.
They gave us a bed in a cubby right away, but it we didn’t get up on a regular floor until two o’clock in the morning. The curtains were drawn while we waited, but we could still hear all the people around us. First, there was a baby crying. Then someone was asking an elderly woman if there was anyone at home who could help her. Then a young man had been wrestling with his friends and had dislocated his shoulder.
I found that young man to be kind of wonderful because his friends came with him, one on each side, helping him balance and holding his arm and his shoulder at an angle. And because he had the luxury of doing ridiculous things to his body. And because he was so cheerful about it... because it was just another adventure in a world where he could still imagine that he would always be strong and healthy.
I like to remember these people. I bring them to mind in fading snips and fragments. I think of the baby and hope that she is better. And I hope the old lady’s sister or someone has come down from Schenectady or somewhere. And I hope that the young man’s shoulder has improved and that he and his friends are cheerfully, blithely out and about, getting themselves into trouble.
I think that my pictures are kind of like it was that night, kind of like listening in. I like to think that every picture I've taken is part of a bigger story, one that expands in every direction, and one that still continues. I mean for example, that the little bird at the top of this blog post is still out there somewhere. I hope so.
And the swans in this picture are still in Sachem Pond, except as I write it's very cold and I know they are hunkered down, conserving their strength and facing into the wind.
And this boat is still swinging on its mooring.
And the winter night that was so still and silent is beginning to turn into spring.
And this dock still stands while the tide keeps rising and falling.
And we’re home again and Bill is better, and we're very happy to be here. And I keep taking pictures, which help me to notice and remember, imagine and hope.
As a story unfolds in the vast space that holds everything.