Andy's Hope

Andy's Hope

There is a particular thing that can happen with people and pictures, and I’ve seen it enough that I have learned that when it happens, it is always important to follow it down. Every so often someone will see a picture, and it will mean something to him, something he feels deeply. This happened last week with my cousin’s husband Andy.

I showed him a series of pictures, so many of my tried and true pictures that had been in shows and where I had already done large commissions, and then almost offhandedly, I showed him another series.  I only thought of them because they came from Barn Island, which is in Pawcatuck, Connecticut, not far from Andy’s home.  He went right to one picture.  He said, “That’s the one I want.  It gives me hope and transcendence.”  So I was like, ”Well, if it does that for you, then you’ve got to have it.”

So I set out to make a large print for him.  And you might like to know, that with pictures like that on the equipment I use it’s not the same as going to CVS and having some snapshots printed.  It takes a lot of time.  I used special watercolor paper, which meant I needed special procedures.  Then I made a series of small trial images.  Then when I thought I had it right, I printed a big one.  I have to say that doing this is very stressful and also very fine.  I have a printer the size of a piano, and it’s got many colors of ink that run through little clear tubes and the print head swishes back and forth and there is a vacuum that holds the paper to the roller and the whole thing is very high tech and when it gets running I feel like a nerdy master of the universe.  And then I wait to see it printing, which is kind of thrilling but also I’m never quite sure that it’s perfectly right, so then I poke my nose up where the print comes out to watch it coming inch by inch while I wait and inspect and suffer.  And then I see the whole thing and I’m still not sure I think I should try it again with slightly different settings.  And so I do that.  And then in this case I call my cousin (Andy’s wife) and I study and ponder and I am torn between what I feel about the picture and what I think Andy might like and then I think and think and finally decide to try what I should have tried to begin with, because I really should know this by now.  And that is to trust my own instincts.  And then I finally decide to print it one more time.  And then I let the pictures dry, in this case with this paper it takes 24 hours, and then I visited the pictures several times in different light and then I called my cousin Liz again. 


Then I had my own clarity about how the picture was supposed to be which was that it should be as true as possible to how it actually was that morning, and also balanced, very balanced.  Because it turned out that the best thing about this picture was if I wanted to look at the drama of the morning sun and the shadows in the clouds I could do that.

And if I wanted to look at the subtle rosy mists and wisps of fog, I could do that too. 

I mean, it could be my choice.  Because this picture had pictures inside of pictures.  There were sparkles on the water or the little bits of seaweed.  There were fine lacy branches that blurred into the fog.  And colors in the sunrise that were deeper in the water than they were in the sky.  There was something everywhere. 

The picture wouldn’t tell me where to look, I could decide.  It was my point of view that showed me the picture, and my point of view could be different every day.  No matter what was happening I could always have something to find in the picture.  That was the surprise and the learning of that picture and I finally saw it, that this picture was like it is in photography or in life in general.  I mean, we’re always out there choosing from all there is to see - the light and the dark, the detail and the drama.  That’s when I became satisfied that the picture was finished and when I felt that it was ready for Andy. 

If it wasn’t for Andy and his affinity for this picture, I never would have picked it out for a large commission, I never would have struggled with it, never would have learned these things.  And I was so glad I had my cousin Liz, so that as we have done since childhood, we could go through another something together.  The picture now hangs in Andy’s office.  It will remain as a point of connection or meaning or beauty or hope, something he notices on some days more than others, something that Andy wanted, something that is different for Andy than it is for me, and that is just how it should be.







Many Scallions

Edie called and told me that the waves along Crescent Beach were spectacular.  She said, “The wind is blowing them back, making long streamers.  My father used to call them scallions.”  I left right away.  I went right down to Scotch Beach and began to take my pictures.  As I took them I thought, “I wonder why he called them scallions.  That’s such an odd name for waves.” 

I knew that they were beautiful waves, and different in certain ways than I had taken before, but I didn’t know what I really had until I had a chance to look at them later.  I had taken many hundreds of pictures, and I got them home I went through them quickly.  I tried not to think too much, because this is how I usually do it. I just pick the ones in a visceral way that might be better than others.  I still picked 150 pictures, and I just went through them again this morning, looking at them more closely.  I saw wave after wave, each one with something wonderful about it, and while I did that I thought about Edie who sent me down to see the ocean, and I thought about how it is to live here, how I get to be here day by day and how that’s important because the ocean has so many faces, and my heart started to swell up with each new picture.

And then I thought, “I’ll bet she said ‘stallions’, not scallions.  Stallions, of course.”

And then I thought about the waves themselves… We had just had a storm and in places, the water was churned up like waves in a washing machine.  The water was spilling in every direction, like children with so much life in their bodies that they didn’t know how to contain it. 

Then I remembered that all that energy in the ocean will also organize itself into long, sweeping rollers.  I thought about how that’s how you can learn to read the waves.  You can say, “Oh, the waves are shaped this way, and they come this many seconds apart.  That means they’ve come from this far away.  And they’re smooth so that means one thing, or they’re choppy so that means something else.  And now look, the wind has turned and it’s blowing in the other direction.” I thought, “Isn’t that a good thing?  That energy wants to organize? I mean, give it time, just give it some time, and all this chaos will start to sort itself out, because that’s what energy does.”

And then I told myself to consider the wave itself.  I considered the light in the wave, and the wind that drove it, and the internal forces, and the ground coming to meet those forces and causing it to break.  I thought, “Water and light and energy.  That’s what makes a wave.”  But that’s the story of a wave, as in that is how we parse it out, here’s what we can say about it, scientifically speaking.  Then I thought, and here is where I stumble to describe it… “It’s not three things, it’s one thing, just a wave, more than water, more than light, more than motion.”  And I felt like it is more than its parts, much like we are.  We’re more than the mud that made us, more than the air we breathe, more than the energy that runs in our bodies.  There’s a little philosophy for you.

There are people living on this island whose lives have been spent on the ocean.  They can tell you everything about it.  Not me, I can tell you a little, and sometimes I'm more correct than at other times, as in the example of scallions.  But I will say, my heart is really in it.  Whatever I can say about a wave, whatever my great philosophy, is less than the feeling I had when I looked at my pictures, considered each one, my heart getting bigger, my eyes getting tears, because that's the direct and immediate thing, the thing I know before I can think about it, just the feeling inside of a human being who loves to look at the ocean.  And I'm happy about my pictures, because I will say it is also a part of what makes this wonderful, that you are there and human too and I can show them to you.


Capturing Moments


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.



Our Sweet Molly

Molly Really Running

I can be quite the ray of sunshine.  For example, in my last blog, I said in so many words: “We just had to take our golden retriever’s leg off.  Have a nice Christmas.”  So I thought to make it up to you, I could show you how well our beautiful Molly is doing.

She’s been elevated to Princess of the World, meaning that Bill and I are now sleeping on mattresses in his office so that she doesn’t have to do stairs and so that she can get abundant cuddles from her boyfriend, or rather my husband, whichever you prefer.  She is fed only the choicest morsels, as well as essential fatty acids and glucosamine.  And every afternoon she gets a ride in the car. 

I’ve noticed that she particularly enjoys the ride if we go to the same places every day. It’s as if she’s saying, “Yup, it’s 3 o’clock.  First we’ll go to North Light, and then we’ll go to the docks. I already know all about it.”

It’s been wonderful to watch her growing stronger.  After her stitches came out we started doing short walks and we’ve been going a little farther every day. Yesterday, she seemed overcome with a burst of joy and went tearing off down toward North Light.  I mean she was running, really running, sustaining a distance for the first time.  She went a hundred yards or so, investigated some bushes and came running back, all happy and bright.

Many of our friends said that the situation might be difficult for us, especially at first, but that it would not be as difficult for Molly.  They said she would not develop a theory about the tragedy of her missing leg.  They said she would take each thing as it came.  And that is exactly how it has been.  And it’s been good because she has been teaching us how to live our lives.

Molly’s cancer may come back and it may not.  But it hasn’t come back today.  So we do have a day.  We have one day and one day and one day.  And we know that one day in the future will be her last, and it might be in three months and it might be in five years.  And can we accept that?  Yes, I think we can.  And meantime, we will have many fine days and the last day will only be one day, and really for her, it will be only one moment, with no pain and no worries whatsoever.

I live my life with a list of concerns and of things to be accomplished, and I think I’m having a nice day or a bad day based on how those things are going.  But I want to change that, even just a little bit, as much as I can.  I want to take the time to know where I am – even while I’m working, to feel the sky above and the earth beneath; to locate myself on this island with the ocean all around; to track myself to the movement of the sun and the stars the way that birds do, even while they survive through the long, cold winter on Block Island.  I want to learn to live as beautifully as Molly does, inside of the world, inside of my senses, inside of the day.  And I forget to do it, and forget again, and that’s why I need my pictures.

You know, without the picture of Molly running, I already would have forgotten.  But now I can dwell on that moment and remember how much joy she has in running, even with three legs, and every time I look at that picture, I can feel how happy it makes me to see her doing so well.

Molly is snoozing at my feet right now, and every so often she’ll rouse herself and give me a little kiss.  Today, I’ll work on my writing and my projects.  Then I’ll pay some bills and make spaghetti and then Molly and I will go for a drive together.  Then we’ll drive to North Light and see how the swans are doing.  Then we’ll go to the docks.  And she’ll sit there smiling and maybe she’ll run and her eyes will be bright.  And I’ll see and my camera will help me remember and she’ll smell with her powerful nose.  And between us, we’ll discover so many good things about our moment in the world.

Molly clearly with something to find out.





Being Fine

So I took Molly to the vet because she had a little limp.  The vet, a very experienced and wonderful guy by the way, did not want to do a biopsy, so as not to disturb what was likely to be a tumor, but we made a date to have it removed and biopsied at that time.  When he started the surgery, the whole thing went sideways, as the tumor began to explosively bleed.  They had a hard time stabilizing Molly so that I could drive her to a bigger, emergency veterinary place.  Then we had to choose, and this was very dicey, protracted and unclear as we went through it at the time, whether to put her down or take off her leg.  

We took off her leg.  Meantime, Bill was sick at home and also my knee went out, ironically, in the corresponding place to Molly’s problems, so that gave me the opportunity to sit around, worry about Molly, listen to Bill have trouble breathing, look up stuff about the election on the internet and think about death.

After a few days of this I began to realize that this was possibly not the most helpful approach to our situation. So I hopped around and put up some Christmas ornaments.  I also began to explore what I have begun to explore a lot lately, which is the answer to this question:  What does it for me?  I mean, what really works, and I’m sorry but there is no other way to put this, when things start to suck the way they have been sucking lately?

I realized I had to accept the worst thing that could happen to Molly, and I began to do that.  And then I worked on my pictures a little.  And this is the thing I want to say.  It is not the pictures themselves that help me the most, but it is what they imply.  They point to completeness and coherence in nature and to completeness and coherence in life in general.  There’s a way I get to feel it, a way it lives in my body.  Then I can know some light or joy or energy in being, not because of anything that is happening or not happening at the moment, just in being itself.  That’s what helps me sometimes, and even when it doesn’t help, I mean, even when I can’t feel it, I can still remember.

The biopsy results came back and it turns out the decision to take Molly’s leg was a good one.  It is the only thing that could possibly prevent the recurrence of the cancer and she has a reasonable chance.  And she is doing well.  She has a new red sweater to keep her warm where they shaved her for the operation.  Her beautiful eyes are clear and bright. The other day, she chased after another dog, actually ran, forgetting about her missing leg until she suddenly tipped over, but yesterday when she did the same thing again, she stayed upright.  She is getting homemade, organic, grass-fed, high-protein food, with special supplements, and why not?  And Bill is better and I am better.  And Molly loves to rest her head on Bill’s shoulder and gaze into his eyes.  So my dog and my husband are having an affair, and this is alright with me.  And our friend Rich and Kevin and Emily and their families are coming for the holidays. 

So my heart is sending this wish to your heart.  May you feel some energy and wholeness of being through the holidays and in the coming year, and may this carry you and give you some joy.





I intended to have these pictures for you in the middle of November.  Then we had the election, and I didn’t have the heart put them in the blog.  But I can do it now.  So here they are and I want to say a few things about them. 

I just had a few minutes to stop by the fish hatchery to give our dog, Molly, a little walk.  It was already mid-morning.  I thought I had missed the good morning light and I thought all the birds would have had their breakfast  and gone.  But I brought my camera anyway, just on general principle.  As I walked through the woods and over the small hill that runs down to the fish ponds, I saw something odd in the closest tree.  It looked like a big squirrel’s nest or a bag of feathers.  I still wasn’t sure what it was, but then it suddenly flew and I was able to get a few pictures.  They weren’t very good pictures but by then, I was starting to wonder…  I knew it was a big hawk at least, but could it be possible, down that low?  Then I played the pictures back inside the camera.  And yes, by God, it was an eagle.  

I’d never seen an eagle down in the trees like that but only way up in the sky or out of reach on the high-tension wires.  I thought I had lost my chance and kept on walking.  Then on the other side of the ponds, there he was again, in the lower branches of a tree.  I started to try to be stealthy, walking perpendicular to the place where he was, first using a building and then a truck as a blind. 

As if that even mattered.  As if he hadn’t already seen me from the moment I came over the hill, and possibly from the moment I arrived at the hatchery.  I finally realized he wasn’t afraid of me or of Molly, that he could take us both if he wanted.  Then I was free to take picture after picture, to get as close as I felt I could.

I have to tell you the best thing, the very best thing about photography:  It is the way I get to be surprised.   This is the definition of hope for me, or how I learned to hope, because there have been hundreds if not thousands of times like this, when I went out and I got a picture that was more than I’d ever seen in my whole life, more than I could have imagined.

I will now share with you the most important secrets of the Grace Bochain Luddy school of fine art nature photography.  First, go outside.  Second, have your camera with you.   Oh, and have your battery charged, and your camera turned on and have a memory card in it.  And take the lens cap off.  And have it set up already so that when something suddenly happens, you won’t have to stop and fiddle around.  Third, when you try to talk yourself out of bringing your camera, speak to yourself, as follows. 

You: “I don’t want to bring my camera.  I’m too tired.”  You:  “You don’t have to take any pictures.  You only have to bring your camera.”  You:  “Nothing is going to happen.  It’s the wrong time of day.”  You:  “That’s true, but bring your camera.”  You:  “But don’t you think it’s the experience that matters, and won’t I experience more deeply if I’m in the moment, without having to take any pictures?”  You:  “You can have your experience.  You can be one with the entire universe.  Just bring your camera.” 

So do this every time.  Because I can tell you that the best things have always happened exactly when I didn't expect them to happen.

I also want to tell you about this eagle.  He is approximately four years old.  I know this because his brown baby eyes have already turned to yellow, and his head and tail have begun to transition from brown to white.  I like to think of this eagle, powerfully soaring around at the fish hatchery.  I like to think of him there right now.  I like to think that he’ll get through the winter, and that he will come into his full adult plumage in due time.  And I like to think that when that happens, he will be so fine.







Well, we just had the election and I am sitting here staring into space.   I was up most of the night with my eyeballs glued to the election maps until Bill came in and dragged me to bed.  I’m struggling now to feel better but I would say it’s not about feeling better - it’s about what I can offer.  I’m reluctant to say anything about this.  I feel enough has been said, so much has been said, and said so well that we didn’t hear what others were saying.  It is possible that this election was lost not in the last few months, but over the many years.  It is possible that once this got started, nothing could stop it from happening.

That said, I think it might help someone, myself at least, if I tell you a story. 

A few weeks ago, I was laying in a meadow, looking up through my camera at some milkweed.  The seeds were gently moving in a soft breeze, such fine little things, so easily moved by almost nothing.  They were holding on to their “mother ship” by the finest thread, and I thought perhaps the breeze would be enough to release them.  I thought I might get a nice picture of a seed floating in the sky.  I waited and waited and nothing ever happened. 

There is nothing like laying under a milkweed plant to make me feel like a child again, because of all that soft magic inside of a rough little pod.  And something happened while I was waiting.  I realized that those seeds would fly, maybe in an hour, maybe in a week, and that there was plenty of time for it to happen.  Without saying that nature has feelings, it was as if she had patience.  And I knew that those seeds would fly and they’d land somewhere, and if they didn’t grow, some other seeds would, and so it would continue.  So again, without making it human, as if they were our feelings, I would say there was faith in that, in the biggest way possible, that nature runs on what we would call faith in the future.

Despite what we might think, I would say that nature is bigger than we are.  We are not her masters but her children.  And nature has carried the human race through many terrible things.  

If this has taught me anything, it’s that campaign funding, endorsements, experience, planning, dignity, values, religion, predictions and truth do not elect the President.  People elect the President.  Mr. Trump does not have a mandate, but he certainly has our attention.  There are lots of things that we can do, not to win or lose as Republicans or Democrats, but to find out how to fix what I believe was behind the Donald Trump movement.  People wanted a government that would do something about their problems, in a way that they could trust.   I was so mad because it was the Republicans who prevented that from happening, and there they were, winning the election.  But I don’t think the Republicans have won the election.  Because Mr. Trump doesn’t necessarily have an allegiance to them.

I have just watched Secretary Clinton and President Obama’s speeches.  I’m sorry we didn’t have an environment that could accurately portray what these people were doing on our behalf.  Or that provided an objective way to evaluate their actions.  Or could see how difficult it was to do their jobs in the world as it actually is.  Or could do what President Obama wanted to do, which was to work together.  But we strained at gnats for Secretary Clinton and missed camels for Mr. Trump.  Even so, Secretary Clinton and President Obama are determined to help Mr. Trump succeed in order to keep us safe and to unify our nation.  They said that Mr. Trump deserves for us to give him a chance and have our support and our open minds, a courtesy that was not extended to them.  President Obama and Secretary Clinton just showed us what they were made of.  I think they are magnificent.

I want to add to that, a comment that was made to me, just now, that I think is important to mention.  My niece said a friend of hers was so upset at the thought that Secretary Clinton might win the election that he broke out in hives and had an asthma attack.  He is a very intelligent, good person who has made it his business to know about politics.  I can't discount his point of view.  I don't understand it now, but I do need to understand.  She also told me that because she lives in a small town and is getting herself through nursing school and is struggling financially, that she is closer to life the way that people actually have to live.  She says that she knows plenty of people who are kind, who are smart, who are not racist, who are not against women, not against gay people, and they voted for Trump, in spite of his behavior, because they realize that they can't get by working what they could get if they were on welfare, because they don't see any way for themselves as working people to have a future for their families.  I said, "But Hillary would have done something about that."  She said, "Not with things the way they are."

I used up my good milkweed pictures but I’ve been saving these river pictures for you.  I took them last fall, before we knew that Bill had cancer.  Things have certainly come a long way since then, and much has come from the most difficult circumstance in our lives.  We are doing lots of healthy things that we would not have otherwise done.  It has been said that people never make important changes in their lives when they’re in a good mood.  Well, we wanted a change and now we've got it.  This is a chance to show what we are made of.  So let's go to the source of whatever helps us the most.  Let's be calm and smart about this, but let's work on it.  For my part, in case you were wondering, I stand for every person, regardless of religion, race, gender, sexual preference or national origin.  And in the last five minutes, I've learned that I need to stand for every person, no matter how they voted.  I think that embracing differences has never been more important than it is right now.  And I will keep dragging nature into every picture and every blog post, because that's what gives me hope.  Let's see how we can turn this into something good.

There is always more to a river than we can see at any given moment, and more to where it can take us.   I've been grieving for what has happened in this election.  I also know that there is a way forward.  Because a river always flows in that direction.

PS.  Just so you know, the big Facebook button below will bring you to my photography Facebook page.  I have a nice little wave video there and a link to my eBooks and am figuring out what else to put on it.  Then the little share button at the bottom of this page will give you access to your social media options, if you want to share this blog with your friends.

Ship of Gold

True Story: The Central American, was a steam/sailing vessel that carried gold and passengers during the 1850's from gold rush in California to the east coast of the United States.  Everything started in California, went to Panama where it was carried across and then reloaded onto ships waiting on the Atlantic side, The Central American being one of them.

The vessel encountered a hurricane 200 miles off the coast of the Carolinas. She was filling with water and the people on board were desperate to keep the water from extinguishing the boilers.   That was the critical thing.  As long as they had the boilers they could propel the ship and keep her from turning sideways to the waves.  The men bailed all day and all night, and they continued into the next day, but they were passing out from exhaustion.  The women begged to be allowed to bail, some of them even dressing as men, but they were thrown off of the line as soon as they were discovered. 

Another ship passed and they threw a line, but it missed.  Neither ship could turn because of the wind, but life boats could travel from one ship to another.  All they needed was the strength to last until everyone could be rescued, but the men were already exhausted.  A few trips were accomplished as the ships grew farther and farther apart.  That saved the children, the women and some of the men, but by then, their strength had failed them completely.  The water rose.  The boilers were extinguished.  The mighty Central American broached and she was overcome.  She sank with almost 600 souls, including the brave Captain Herndon, who had refused to leave the ship while a single person remained aboard.  The year was 1857.  The ship and its treasure remained 8000 feet below the surface until 1989, when the treasure was salvaged.  It was one of the most difficult and expensive salvage operations ever undertaken and one of the greatest treasures ever recovered. 

I'm telling you this story and showing you this picture (I drew it myself by the way), in part so you can see why I chose photography over illustration, and in part because I think there might be something in this story that is relevant right now.

Here is more of the story.

The people threw all the gold overboard to lighten the ship, 21 tons of it.   Survivors reported that it became a sort of ecstatic frenzy, that people found liberation in discovering that when faced with death, the gold meant nothing to them.  There was also a couple on their honeymoon.  The young man sent a note to his bride after she had been carried to the other ship.  He said that he could die in peace because he had found such happiness in the time they had been together.  The woman reported about it later.  She said that there she was, exhausted, wet, cold, seasick, desperate, grieving, and by no means out of danger.  She said that note made her so happy that in that moment, nothing else mattered.  The note made all of her suffering go away.  

I like it that the love between this young man and woman was more important to them than anything, more important than their lives.  I also wish to point out that the people could easily give up their gold, but they couldn't give up their beliefs - in this case, their beliefs about men and women and about their proper place.  This story helps me understand how strongly beliefs are held inside of people, how they should not be taken lightly, how people will die before they will give up their beliefs.

I don't think they had a choice about it.  I don't think they could say, "Shall we go down with the ship, or shall we think a little more broadly?"  I think their identity was at stake and their sense of self-integrity as well as their reputation and their place in their tribe.  I think it was about what they thought was important and true and real in the world.  It would have helped if they had had time to think about it, and perhaps a little diversity.  I think they could have used a couple of different opinions.

So now I will come to the political application.  I consider this story when I can't understand why people act or believe the way they do, and I especially think of it when I want to challenge my own beliefs, especially the ones that might be blinding me to what what might be possible in life.

People are now saying anything, and they act like it doesn't matter if it's true.  People act like they could easily sacrifice their country to serve their parties' interests. And as much as some call on higher ideals, they act like there are no ideals at all. 

I don't think there is any wall we can build when our enemies are in our own country, and the current climate could turn us into a country full of enemies.  I listened to the audience during the second debate last week, and I found it quite disturbing.  There were times when it sounded very primal.  It sounded like the people wanted blood.  We have become a deeply fractured country.  People have their beliefs and we already know about how people commit to beliefs.  So what do we do about that?

Photography has taught me about certain kinds of truth - physical truth, practical truth.  And perhaps that kind of truth can be unifying, if people get used to knowing what it is.  For example, when I lost my new camera, it could only be in a one place.  No matter where I wanted it to be, no matter how many opinions I might have had about it, it could only be in that place.  In that case, perception was not reality.  Reality was reality.  And if I wanted to find my camera I had to look for it where it was.

Perhaps there are things we can agree on together, certain physical things, and if we can't agree on the truth itself, perhaps we can agree on where to find it.  Because now everything gets picked apart and taken out of context, put in its most click-worthy and divisive light and I don't think we can afford that.  I think that falsehood comes in many flavors.  I also think since it has no inherent reality it needs a lot of propping up.  But truth is true, and it waits for us, because there it was, in the ferry parking lot, dangling by its camera strap from the driver's side mirror of my car.

The Ship of Gold story tells me two things.  First, that people can get stuck on a certain point of view.  But second, that people are much more than their point of view.   They are about each other, and also about honor and love.  So let's start with that. 

And now I have some pictures for you, just to cheer you up.  I thought they might show that nature still knows what she's doing.  And perhaps we might find in this story some hope for the future, because it tells us that more is possible than we currently can know.

This is a milk weed pod at the fish hatchery.

This is detail on another pod, with a good look at the beautiful dew.

These are two seeds together when a soft breeze was coming, getting ready to fly.

This is another seed that has partially landed.  She still has to wait for the grass to fall down, before she can complete her journey.

This is a lovely spider web and I put it in because my friend Lisa likes it.

I put this one in because of the dragonfly.


PS.  You might like to know that the new husband was one of those ultimately rescued, so he and his new bride were able to live out their lives together.





Moving and Mansion Beach

We had just moved back into the house, after the summer rental.  It's a change for us and it's not just because of the move.  The whole island changes.  The number of visitors reduces by about half, and will keep reducing, week by week, until after Columbus Day weekend, when most things will close down.   And the weather is changing.  The mornings are cooler, even on hot days, and after a drought that lasted most of the summer, we've started to get little smatterings of rain. 

After living on a boat, where everything is just a few steps from everything thing else, the house seems to call for a lot of walking.  I can make a whole meal on the boat without ever taking a step.  The sink is right there and to chop things up, I just put a cutting board over it.  Then to use the stove, I only have to turn to the side.  The food is stored all around me.  It seems exactly right.  In the house, the sink is in one place and the stove is in another with a place to walk in between.  It's not a big kitchen, but until my sense of living space adjusts, it will feel like a little commute.

On the other hand, when I live on a boat on a mooring, my normal pattern of living means I'm spending a lot of time in nature.  In a house, I can do most things without going outside.  So I get this feeling every year, that my life is more convenient, but suddenly more confined.  Unless I make a decision to get out there.  Which of course, I do.

I'd been thinking about some friends who normally come to the island and couldn't make it this year.  I was missing them and I thought it would be nice to go to Mansion Beach, which is one of their favorite places.   So I went out one cool evening, the first of September, and I got the image above after sunset, by using my tripod and taking a long exposure.

Four days later, Hurricane Hermine was hanging off the coast.  The beaches were suddenly empty.  I decided to go back to Mansion Beach and take another picture, to show that two pictures taken from the same spot can be very different from each other.  I've always tried to make photographs that were "true", by that I mean, unaltered, as close as possible to the feeling and also the "reality" that was out there.  But I've been realizing lately how much a photographer affects a picture.  I choose what to take and on top of that, I also choose how to take it.  Different lenses and changes in length of exposure and aperture make a big difference.  So this another picture of the point just north of Mansion.  I used a telephoto instead of a wide angle lens and a short exposure instead of a long one.  Also, because the second picture was more about pattern than about color, I desaturated it a little, made it half way to black and white.

This next photograph was taken, also from Mansion Beach, but looking south toward town.  I stood in the water to get this picture.  Well actually, the way it happened is I was so busy taking pictures that I didn't pay attention to the water coming in.  So I got wet, and then what difference did it make?  So I went in, just a little bit, and the water splashed up to my waist.   I didn't go in very far.  It was probably not the best day for a swim. 

Here another picture, taken the same evening as I took the first picture.  It's also a nighttime, long exposure.

Bill and I just got home from the hospital yesterday.  He had a successful hernia operation.  It was a little tricky because of his prior operation, but the doctor in his words, was a little "creative", so he was still able to do it laparoscopically.  I'm sure once we get through the initial period of recovery, he'll be leaping around.  I thank those of you who knew about it for all your good thoughts and prayers and wishes. 

As I sat there in the surgical waiting area, and in the his room afterward and as I spent the night on a cot next to his bed, do you know what I was doing?  I was working on my pictures.  This is why I'm telling you.  It was the best and most interesting and most sustaining thing I could possibly do in that hospital.  Much better than reading a New Yorker that I was initially pleased to see in the waiting room, until I realized it was the same issue that had also been in that waiting room last March.

So anyway, be well, everyone, and thank you for reading my blog.  I got a good sleep last night.  Bill is out of pain.  Everything is good.


My Family and Birds and the Democratic National Convention

I like this guy and I've been waiting to have a chance to use him.  I used a little Photoshop, just as an experiment.  A nice Blue Heron blending in with the trees.  He seems to have a definite point of view.

So I went to Nova Scotia in July, where my family has a little house and a lot of land on the Bay of Fundy.  My 87 year-old mother and all six of us children were there with some of our spouses and children. 

It’s interesting how we all grew up in the same family and how we manage to have so many different points of view on everything.  I’ll say that if you put the six of us into the same room, you will hear twelve different opinions.  We established a “no politics” rule when we were in Nova Scotia, partly because we wanted to get through the week without throwing anything at each other.  Our rule worked well, but many of us watched the Democratic National Convention at night and then got into little huddles to talk about it.

I have heard it said that every child grows up in a different family.  Well, I would say that everyone in my family has grown up in a different country, where the same things have happened, but they mean different things, are given different emphasis, and laced with different opinions and placed in a different context.  And for some of us, the differences are bigger than for others.

But this is how we're the same.  My grandfather’s favorite song was the French National Anthem.  This was because it was illegal for him to sing it in what was then pre-revolutionary Russia.  I am proud because despite the fact that he was in the Czar’s personal guard, he managed to think for himself.   When he got to this country, my grandfather sang it all the time, and long after he died, the six of us children would sing it, in French and in English, whenever we drove around in our car, while my father listened with tears in his eyes.  (Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé!) So there was this idea of freedom, what it meant to be able to sing any song we wanted. 

I knew that democracy was important, and I’m struggling now to define what that meant to my father.  It’s so easy to say some words, and we’ve heard them so much that we almost forget what they mean.  All I can tell you is that my father worked very hard.  He was responsible for quality control in a company that made helicopters for the Vietnam War and he went in at six in the morning and came home for dinner and then he went back until ten at night.  He did this for years.  Because he was a supervisor, he did this without overtime pay.  The people who worked for him made two or three times what he made, but as much as he needed the money this wasn’t the most important thing to him.  He said that his sons or his nephews could be in those helicopters and that none of them would fall from the sky if he could prevent it.  It was as if they were all his sons and nephews.  It was as if they were all worth any amount of trouble.

When my dad was in his 90’s, it took my mom several hours to get him down to the polls because it was so difficult to get him around with his wheelchair.  It was a lot of work, but my father had to do this, because this was sacred to him, the fact that his opinion would be counted, the rare and precious chance to choose. 

I grew up with my whole family and my grandmother in her house and I was always trying to make her laugh, because even as a child I knew that she was sad.  She had come to this country from Minsk to New York City, the youngest of several children, all by herself, when she was 18 years old.  She worked in a sewing factory and when she came home at night, she worked in her garden.  She called it her “gardna”, and she said that working there was her vacation, and I knew it was the only vacation she ever had.  There was the Bolshevik Revolution and the Menshevik Revolution and she got stuck here, and then she married my grandfather and there was World War I and World War 2, and all of it hit her people right between the eyes.  My aunt went back to Russia, finally, I think in the 1980’s, after my grandmother was gone, and she could not find any family.  

My father lived through the Red Scare when there was always a danger that as a Russian, he would be branded as a Commie.  He also fought in both World War 2 and in Korea and I didn’t know how bad that was for him until I was with him when he was old, when he said things in the middle of night or when he cried out when he was coming out of anesthesia.

It is strange how this has affected me.  For example, a few years ago, I was taking pictures of my niece and nephews, and I couldn’t get them to stay still for a minute, I could only follow them around.  At one point they happened to arrange themselves against an old barn wall.  I smiled and laughed and took some very nice pictures of their beautiful little selves, but inside I found it hard, I still find it hard, really hard, it makes me sick almost, to think of any children against any wall.

So my idea of what is difficult and what could happen in a country is calibrated by my grandmother’s and my father’s experience, against something that was both explicit and implicit in my family the whole time I was growing up:  “You are so lucky to be here… to have all this food on your table.”  And, “People have died for your freedom.”   And, “You carry our future.” And, “Take care of each other.” 

I wonder what I could possibly add to the conversation, when there are brilliant people who’ve spent their careers engaging in national discourse.  But I feel it’s important to be involved at this time in our history.  So I need to be involved and I can only give what I have, so this is it.

When Bill was sick, there were several months when I didn’t know how bad it would be, and of course I was afraid.  Of course I was focused on the problem and I wanted to do something that matched the way I was feeling.  I wanted to do something radical.   So I wanted to move off the island.  And I thought and thought, and looked all over the mainland, and I finally stopped for long enough to ask myself what I wanted.   And then I thought, “But I love it here.”  And then I started to think of what I had.  I loved the island.  I love my life.  I love my husband and our family. 

So I learned something.   I decided that whenever I have to make a big decision, I will think about what I love.  Because that’s what I need to stand on when I think about my problems.  Because what I have is so much bigger than my problems, and if I remember that, I might possibly find solutions without throwing my life down the drain.  And I also learned that fixing a fear is not the same as fixing a problem.  Because I was afraid that Bill might have stage 4 cancer and he only had stage 1 cancer.  If I had tried to fix stage 4 cancer, it would have taken so much out of us, and that would have been worse than the problem we actually had.

I have heard it said over and over again that if people want to be in politics there has got to be something wrong with them.  But I know how my father felt, how people in my family feel.  We care a lot.  We all want to help.  We won’t be selfish about our country.  I won’t do that to the memory of my grandmother or of my father after all they went through.  It would make me hate myself.  So I don’t think we have to be so cynical.  I think we can call to the meaning of our ancestors’ lives, and to what’s best in each other. 

I have also learned in taking pictures that if life is difficult, it is also very beautiful.  And it seems to me that it’s always yearning forward, seeking and healing and re-making itself.  And it defines what’s real, no matter what we say about it.  It always runs on what’s real.

I think right now, politically speaking, it’s like we are driving in a snowstorm.  And all this snow is falling on our windshields.  Somehow we have to look through all of that and find out how to stay on the road.

The world is has changed just like it changed for our grandparents and for our parents.  Our children are different than we are.  I have been told that they are more like each other, irrespective of national borders, at least in information-laden countries, and more different from us, than we are from each other. 

I say this understanding that people are made in layers.  I mean, when I say our children are different from us and more like each other, I would say that it’s partly on the surface.  There are things underneath, deep things that are learned and hardwired through generations, welded in by our ancestors’ courage and trauma and weakness and love, and those things stay in us even after we forget how they got there.  So here are some questions.  Do we remember what matters?  Do we know where we came from?  Do we know what we have?  Do we know who we are?

Photography for me has always been about another way of seeing.  It’s not that the life or beauty hasn’t been there the whole time.  It’s just that I was so used to it that I forgot to notice.  So photography has helped me to see again.  In some ways, it’s helped me see like a child again, with many surprises and with lots of hope and wonder.  I need that right now, in this situation.

I think that facts will win in the long run, but I hope that they will win soon.  I hope we can remember what we have and not be afraid, and that we can learn, and that we can sacrifice for each other because people have sacrificed for us.  And I know that we are able to be so good, because we are so good, because we are made with the same hand that made the waves and the birds, and because we have come from people who loved us the best that they could.   And because we already have such beauty and so many gifts in our lives.  Because we can do this right, and if we do, this is what our children will remember and how they will behave when it’s their turn to make the world.


I went all the way to Nova Scotia and do you know what I found there?  Blue Heron.

Back at the fish hatchery, just before coming home to Block Island.  I have never seen Great Egret there, but this time there were three of them, mixed in with the Blue Heron.


Our good friend Rich Field runs all over the world doing legal work.  He is also a fine performer and appreciator of many kinds of art.  After my last post, he wrote to say that my birds reminded him of a dance performance he had seen a few years ago.  This performance included the poem, "Wings", by Susan Stewart.  I love this poem very much and I wrote to Susan who kindly gave me permission to share it with you.  So I set myself to take some bird pictures in which I could show that flying is like dancing.  And this morning, while walking with my husband, we saw this great blue heron against a cloudy sky.  So this post is given to you with appreciation for our friend Rich, for Susan and her wonderful poem, for this bird, and for all the ways that so many human and other beings express their courage and beauty in the world.

Bird Study

Miss Elizabeth Dickens, a woman who was born on Block Island in 1877, was the last of a family that had been here since the late 1600’s.  She was also one of the first Audubon teachers in the country.  She taught Bird Study at the school.  As a result, there are generations of Block Islanders, men and women, who grew up learning about birds.  They know everything, can name every bird by sight and sound and behavior.  They know what birds eat, and when they are coming to Block Island.  It’s part of the culture, deep in the culture here on the island, to know about birds, to feed them and love them, to report on their activities as an important part of what’s going on.  It’s a wonderful thing. 

So I was visiting my friend Edie, and on the way down her driveway I passed her son Chris’ bird feeder.  I climbed into the passenger seat and rolled down the window.  The birds, (and this is usually true as long as I stay in the car), accepted my presence and allowed me to take their pictures.

I love mourning doves in particular, with their gentle cooing songs, and their subtle colors so nicely paired with a dash of turquoise, very tastefully done, to highlight their big, black eyes.  So I was happy when they flew down and even happier when this little story happened:  There were two mourning doves, sitting companionably, looking this way and that way, turning their heads in tandem, agreeing on what to observe about the world.  Another bird came down and sat between them, kind of hogging the perch from the left one a little until that one left and then the other one left, leaving the new bird alone.  I'm thinking it didn't work out like he planned.

I try to imagine what it’s like to live through eyes that see more colors, to have magnificent wings, to be able to fly and turn in the air like a ninja, to have no hands, but a beak as my only recourse, to eat worms and seeds, to have so many babies, and to be out there exposed to the elements, no matter what comes; to have a world of experience, of hunger and beauty and birth and death played out in a different kind of body with a different kind of mind.   I can only guess, but photography allows me watch more closely, and pretend that I can know something.  At least I know this, that they’re not particularly worried about the election, and I like to think that they feel their lives as deeply as I feel mine.

When I originally looked at these pictures, I was a little confused.  There were little dots everywhere and it looks like rain, but nothing is wet in the pictures and I don’t remember that it was raining.  It could be the beginning of a light drizzle or it could be pollen, but that’s a lot of pollen, but of course it was spring, so I don’t know.  In any case, I hope you like these pictures and that you can imagine with me, a little bit about the lives of these birds.


PS.  I stepped out of the house yesterday and the air smelled like roses.  This is my favorite thing at this time of year, that everything is newly green and the air smells like perfume.  It’s beautiful here.  Beautiful, beautiful.

PPS.  Bill is well, we’re doing well, getting the boat ready and moving out of the house a week from tomorrow.  I just finished making slipcovers, and next week I’m going to make a bimini and some other things for the boat.  Of course.  Some nice giant projects just before we move out.

So Much Better

There is so much to say that I don’t know how to tell you, so I thought I might start and see how this goes.  I want to say that Bill’s experience is his own and I want to acknowledge all that he has done to heal for his own sake and for ours because he has worked very hard and made many changes, and has gotten through difficult things, as he always does, with gentleness, dignity and persistence.  Now I will speak from my experience as the partner of a person who has had cancer. 

I have lived with illness before but I didn’t know about the particular ways that cancer would mess with my head.  There is a “what’s behind door number one?” aspect to it, an uncertainty where everything that matters is waiting on just a few moments when you find out about the tests.  I have always been a person who likes to think of all the possible solutions, but how do you solve problems when you don’t know what they will be?  We were in a new country, with a new language, many procedures, and new rules.  There was so much at stake but we didn’t know what was reasonable, we didn’t know what to expect.  It was hard to find our bearings.   A doctor would throw out, sometimes almost at random, a little morsel of news like, “A few weeks won’t make any difference.” and we wouldn’t know what it meant.  Of course we talked to everyone, researched everything, and made the best decisions we could make as we slowly gained information.  But I felt like a squirrel, crossing a road in traffic.  “Should we keep going?  No.  Go back.  Get another opinion?  Find a cancer center?  Not yet.  Keep going.  Wait.”   

We were off-island a lot… this is a particular thing about where we live because ferries don’t run very often in winter.  And it’s a thing about cancer in general, because there are so many parts of the body that need to be poked at and measured by various specialists… urologists, nephrologists, oncologists, anesthesiologists, cardiologists, pulmonologists, vascular surgeons, and so on.  It only took a few appointments for us to be away from home for a week and a half.  So that happened several times and ferries cancelled and there were snowstorms and the power went out and Bill lost 12 pounds in January alone.  And that was before any procedures.  Then some medicine caused thrush and more weight loss and there were other issues.  Our personal favorite was that Bill had a stent running from his kidney to his bladder.  If you read about these online you will find out that they “occasionally cause some discomfort”.  What that actually meant was that Bill’s bladder was more intolerant of outsiders than Japan in the 19th century; that it freaked out, cramped up and constantly tried to dislodge whatever did not belong there.  What this meant was pain greater than that associated with childbirth and it did not respond, not even to morphine.  And Bill lost more weight.  And we finally got it under control with muscle relaxants and bladder analgesics, but it still woke Bill up every 15 minutes all night long for weeks.

And this, I have to tell you, is what can be described in the world of cancer, as a fairly easy time.  It was all in the context of what finally came to be a very good prognosis.  We could feel that we only had to keep going for a little while longer and that Bill would be fine.  We would be fine.

We learned which doctors and practitioners we could trust, and we learned how important it was to have people we could believe in.  And we had friends and family, some were in the medical profession and some had been through this journey themselves. They helped us again and again, answering questions, doing research, responding when Bill was in pain.

Bill’s children and their partners took time off from work.  They called.  They travelled long distances, sent cards and emails and videos of our grandchildren.  Bill’s son stayed by his side in the SCU for two nights in a row.  They loved.  They worried. They asked careful questions.  They offered to talk.  They faced it. 

I thought about so many friends who have carried their loved ones, stayed with them through every moment of a truly indescribable process.  I realize now, that there is a confederation of people who immediately know, who offer recognition and understanding.  I learned that there are people who will do almost anything for another cancer family.   These are the people who disagreed when I said that I felt crazy.  They said I wasn’t crazy.  They said they had felt the same way too.  They said I was taking good care of my husband.   They said to rest.  They said I could call any time.  This is what I lived on. 

I didn’t write and I only took a few pictures.  I had no big insights.  No doves flew down from heaven.  There was one time however, at about 2 in the morning, when I woke up with a very strong feeling about beauty.  I thought, “What if no one had ever been here to see it?”  It made me so sad just to think of it, a vast unconscious universe filled with lonely beauty.  And then I thought, “That has to be impossible.  There has to be a reason.”  I thought, “I want to see the beauty that I usually forget to notice.”  “And the beauty in hidden places.”  “And the beauty far away.”  And I set myself to feel my way into all that beauty.  What about that clear, deep methane ocean, for example, on that especially calm night, on that moon where the rings of Saturn splay across the sky?  With that the softest distant light, reaching down into that ocean, fading into depths and darkness?   I thought, “Why is everything so beautiful?” and then I fell asleep.  

Bill is so much better.  His stent came out last week and each night he’s gotten a little more rest.  We’re home and he’s eating and he’s gained a couple of pounds.  He’s off almost all of his medications.  Bill has always been a very smart man who has lived in a thought bubble over his head.  Well, now his body has got his attention.  He’s becoming that good habits guy, that water-drinking guy, that vegetable loving guy and pretty soon he’ll be that guy who exercises every day.  I’ve done our taxes, started getting the house ready to rent and the boat ready and I’ve started going for walks and carrying my camera and my backpack.  There are physical sensations - my camera harness across by shoulders, my backpack on my back.  It’s like putting on a favorite jacket, resuming a well-loved life.  

But I do feel a little bit changed.  I recently read an anthology of the writings of Abraham Joshua Heschel.  He was born in Warsaw, studied and wrote poetry in Vilna and had begun to write books in Berlin in the 1920’s, when he had to flee through Poland, to England, and finally to the United States.  His life declared the sensitivity, rigor and richness of his Hasidic lineage, and his words reflected both the depth of his Jewish identity and his secular study in Vilna and Berlin.  He said a wonderful thing.  He said that people could let their souls and the sky be silent together. 

Let our souls and the sky be silent together.  Isn’t that perfect?   I mean, the silence part is excellent.  But what I like most at this particular time is the part about being together.  So that’s how I want to take pictures, to understand that what ever it is I’m taking, that we are actually together.  Me and the sky, me and the river, me and the ocean, me and the stones, me and the trees and the birds and the rain on the window and the new spring buds and grasses.  

When I put my mind on something, I turn it in every direction, live inside it, gnaw at it.  I seldom put it down.  I’ve been putting my mind on cancer.  It will be good for me to think about beauty for a while. 

Do you know what I think right now about beauty?  I give myself to beauty and it gives itself to me.  Everything feels intimate when I’m in my beauty.  And where ever I go, I know that beauty will always be there.  It’s a call notice, a call to come closer.  It’s the opposite of thinking that I could ever be alone.  Beauty is here already.  It’s mine whenever I open my eyes, or even when I imagine.  But the way I craft my life from the beauty I’ve been given - that is up to me.  Here is another good quote from Rabbi Heschel, “Remember…that there is meaning beyond absurdity.  Know that every deed counts.  Every word is power… Above all, remember that you must build your life as if it were a work of art…” (1) 

I want to thank you for reading my blog, for taking time out of your life to do so.  I don’t know if I could form my thoughts if you weren’t there to read them.  I have deep respect and good wishes for you.  May we all claim our freedom.  May we all know our beauty.  May we so build our lives. 

PS.  I want to explain to you about these pictures.  I took out a picture from the last blog and I worked on it in Photoshop so that it was half way between a photograph and something I could imagine.  And then I picked out certain sections to show you.  It helps me to do this sometimes, because it removes the fog of what I take for granted... there is underlying structure, the way that light touches everything, the way it all fits together.  And looking more closely helps me see the beauty I missed before.  I've been looking at these pictures all morning, and it's like I've fallen into them, looking at all their little secrets.  It has started to make me happy.  If I had to put words, I would say something like, "I see you.  I see you."  

I'm pretty good at soldiering on, and the harder things become in my life, the less I directly feel about them.  But when I'm returning to this kind of beauty, my heart begins to get lighter.  I can rest from all that we've been through in a context that I trust, where I have learned again and again that there is more to beauty than I think, that it points to even more beauty and even perhaps to ultimate safety beyond what I can perceive.

(1)  This quote is from the book, "I Asked for Wonder, A Spiritual Anthology, Abraham Joshua Heschel".  It was edited by Samuel H. Dresner.   The publisher is The Crossroad Publishing Company, 370 Lexington Avenue, New York, NY, 10017.  The quote is on page ix.   I happen to have an older version of the book but it's still in print and you can get it on Amazon or probably some other bookseller.

Beauty Now

I haven’t been writing because something has come up and I wasn’t sure when to tell you, but I want you to know that my husband Bill was diagnosed in January with cancer.  

It’s been quite the clarifying process as I’m sure you can imagine, and I am going to try to limit myself to saying just a few things about it, with special respect for people who have been through something like this themselves, and who already know everything that I could possibly say about it.

It’s like someone said, “In three weeks, we’re going to give you both a million dollars or else we’re going to blow your heads off.  We haven’t decided.  And in any case we lost your file (because that actually happened).  But, oh wait.  We changed our minds.  In five weeks, or maybe in seven weeks we’ll tell you - a few weeks won’t make any difference.” 

So what could we do with news like that?  What could we do after we had done everything we could do to affect where that most important ball in that giant pinball machine might fall?   After there was nothing left inside of me, sometimes, except for silence?  Well then, I listened to that silence - that is all that I could do, all I wanted to do.

I don’t think that ever in my life before, when faced with anything, I have ever said, in quite this way, “I really can’t do this.”   Well, I can’t do this.  But I have found that there are people who have gathered, weaving themselves into a net.  And some have been through things like this themselves and they are wise and very strong.  It makes me proud, Donald Trump notwithstanding, to be a human being.  Because I see how this is an instinct, how people want to be there for us, how they feel with us, how they actually need to help.  It gives me hope for all of us.

I look at my life and my marriage with Bill and I realize that someday, one of us will bury the other.  And this might be trite, but you know all that stuff that I thought was important?  It’s not important.  Then other stuff is very important, like the ways in which we protect and carry each other, how we both have needed that in very different and specific ways, and how we fit together like pieces in a puzzle. I think we have been gifts for each other, and we have both become more ourselves in the years we have been together. 

And I like to remember that everything that has ever happened between us, everything that’s happening now will always be true forever.

I go around like everything is fine, even when there is a lot to deal with, especially when there is a lot to deal with.  But I was at the fish hatchery and for some reason I just felt like I wanted to see the river, even though I really didn’t have the time.  So I thought, “OK, just for a minute,” and I went down.  And as soon as I saw the river, I started to cry.  Because there it was.  And I was so glad for the many times I have gone to take its picture because I realized that we have gotten to know each other, and that it has become my friend.  And I set an intention right then for taking my pictures.  I said I would never think that anything was an object to be taken, even to show its beauty.  I said that pictures are a way to be in a relationship.  I said that nature deserves this and that a picture taken any other way, at least for me, is porn.

While we were at my mother’s house in Moosup, we had a blizzard and the power went out.  It was getting cold in the house and I had to get Bill to some place warm.  So our niece came to get us with her four-wheel drive just as the snow was ending and we were getting into her car.  And I saw the sun break through and I asked if they minded if I ran and got my camera.  And so I took some pictures of the trees in our yard.  You know, they are just trees.   They aren’t in Block Island where everything is widely known to be gorgeous.   But I used to climb one particular tree when I was a child.  I used to sit on one particular branch and lean my head and feel the rough bark and see the green leaves and I just loved to sit there because it was my place and my refuge.  I realized it had been so long, almost 50 years, since I had spent any time with that tree.  But I saw that the tree was still there and that I still had a chance to thank it and love it properly. 

And when I got into the car I was worried that I had taken too long but both Bill and our niece said, “Oh, we didn’t mind.  We didn’t mind at all.  Aren’t they beautiful?”  And they were, and especially so because they had put on their diamonds for us.  Then I thought how I never have to be in an officially beautiful place to take a beautiful picture, because the beauty is everywhere and it is also inside of us because that’s how we are able to see it. 

Half Dipper River

This is the Half Dipper River, at Eiheiji, Fukui Prefecture, Japan, taken when I was there many years ago, just when we were beginning to live on Block Island, way before I became a photographer.  Lucky I had a camera with me.

So there we were in our business suits, drinking green tea around a conference table in an office building in Tokyo.  We had presented our business cards, which we gave and received ceremoniously, with two hands and a little bow.  We had placed them neatly next to our papers so that we could continue to admire them.  Our colleagues were very kind to speak to us in English, but when I happened to mention that I was going to study at Eiheiji, the founding Soto Zen monastery in Japan, they burst into Japanese, clucked in concerned voices and with grave nods in my direction, concluded with, “Ohhhhh, Eiheiji.”

Eiheiji, I learned, had a reputation for being difficult.  I had already been studying Zen for about five years, so I knew about the practice, but other than that and my friends’ concern, I really didn’t know what to expect.  So with some trepidation, I boarded a train in Tokyo.  It carried me across Japan to Kyoto.  After a few side trips, I intended to head north from there on a less travelled route to Fukui City and then on an even less travelled route to the monastery. 

I could watch out the window and see mountains with startling steep sides, and all the buildings crammed into the valleys.  I could see modern buildings and older buildings that had been cobbled together after the war.  I could see beautiful, tall, old cedars, and fog rolling in from the Sea of Japan, and cranes flying, following the course of the rivers. I could see children in their uniforms playing organized games after school.  Everything was neat, so carefully tended. Despite the fact that I was looking at the underbellies of towns as we passed, as often happens on trains, I did not see one scrap of paper or a beer can or any other example of anyone’s careless disregard for the entire length of the journey, which was about 400 miles. 

There were ladies who boarded the trains at every stop.  They competed to see who could make the nicest meals in wonderful bamboo boxes, lined with banana leaves and filled with rice and seaweed and pickles and seafood.  I bought one of the boxes, and when I attempted to open the soy sauce, which was in a plastic container that looked like a little fish, and I twisted the top, it squirted all over my section of the train compartment.  The Japanese folks around me courteously pretended not to notice as I got down on my hands and knees on that spotless train to clean up the mess I had made.

Other than that, things went well until I got off the main line running from Tokyo to Kyoto.  From that point on, there was no “Romanji”, the Roman-style writing that we use in the west.  All the signs were in Kanji or Hiragana, the customary forms of calligraphic writing in Japan.   I had no idea where to go.  Not a single clue.  I was as helpless and lost as a toddler. 

Inada-san, the president of the company with whom I was working, had told me that all children in Japan studied English.  He had advised me to find a young girl, about 12 years old, and ask her to help me.   I went from one child to another, saying, “Do you speak English?”  Many were too shy to answer, but one said, “arrito” (a little).  She gave directions, and I would go as far as I could, which in some cases was only a few hundred feet, and then I would find another young friend.

Here is a cedar building at Eiheiji.

That is how I made my way, by degrees, to Eiheiji.  I walked through the town, which was full of shops that sold Buddhist tourist items.  I walked up the hill, pulling my suitcase.  And the first thing I saw was the roof of a temple poking up from behind some cedars.  There was a wooden lotus blossom at the peak of the roof.  It had been painted gold, and was precisely positioned so that it caught the morning rays of the sun.  I thought, “Somebody really considered that building, exactly where to put that flower.”  I walked through the gate and what opened before me was a landscape full of many buildings, some centuries old, built into the side of a mountain.  Streams of water were coming down, guided through channels that ran along the equally old stone steps and pathways that connected the buildings.  The buildings themselves had been built out of cedar, and they had been finished, not with any kind of varnish, but with a special technique of scraping and pressing that sealed the grain of the wood.  As a result, some of the buildings were still red, like new cedar, having not yet gone silver with age.

There was a river running along the edge of the monastery.  It is called the “Half Dipper River”, and this what I want to tell you.  Eihei Dogen, came from China to Japan in the 1300’s, and founded Eiheiji.  The story was, he used to go to the river to drink the water, but he’d only drink half of what was in his dipper.  He always put half of it back.  

I like that very much.  I like everything about it.  I like it that he went to the river and took what he needed.  And I like that he didn’t keep all that was in his dipper.  Perhaps it was his way of saying how he wanted to live his life, knowing that the river would always be there, that he didn’t have to hold on to anything, didn’t have to be afraid.

Dogen had come from another country.  He was breaking ground, settling in, getting organized, schmoozing dignitaries, sourcing heat and money and food, building buildings, writing, teaching students.  I have a book of translations of some of his lectures.  It’s eight hundred pages long.  So I don’t think that he just sat there, being wise.  So I hope that the story is true, that he actually did have time to get to the river, to get what he needed, to build his life and his place from the nourishment from the river.  I think he did, because I think that’s how many beautiful and enduring things can happen.  And Eiheiji is beautiful.  And it’s lasted 600 years.

Here’s what I know.  Everything that means anything to me - my sight, my mind, my hands, my cameras, the time I have, the beauty, the light, the breath I take while I’m taking my pictures, my friends, each of you, my husband, our family - every single one of these things is given, given every second, given like a river.

So this is what I remember when I think of this story.  I can care for my life.   I can have what I need.  I can do my work.  I can make things.  I can give.  I have a river.  I stand alone in nothing. 

I play this little game in my head, sometimes.  I think of the rain, and the dark earth absorbing what it needs and sending the rest of it onward.  I think of all the streams and rivers, of the oceans and all of the waves tumbling on every shore.  I think of all that energy, all of that motion, never ending - the moisture and the blood flow and the heartbeat of the world.  And then I think of a little spot at the fish hatchery, just one little spot, where a little stream bends around and in that bend is a log and the water comes up from under that log and it boils the surface.  I remember the water was boiling at that spot in the early spring when I took its picture and also boiling in the summer when I took its picture again.  Something in that stream gets through to me.  I can feel it running right now. 

When I need to know what I can rely on, what runs through and nourishes our lives, Bill’s and mine, I think of that little stream running.  I like to know and feel it in my body, to feel that it’s always there, because that’s what I can use, and that’s how often I need it.

I didn't put my river in because I've already done that, a few times in this blog.  But this is my friend Lisa's excellent river.  Her father used to bring her here when she was a little girl.  She and her husband now have a camp nearby. 

Night Light

The Block Island Ferry, turned around and backing up to get to the dock on Block Island.  See the deck hand, waiting in back, and the line of light defining the shoreline?

I remember when we were building the house on Block Island, that sometimes we would come in the winter and stay at the Blue Dory Inn near Old Harbor.  I would go out at night and walk around by the ferry.  Or I would walk on the beach.  I could make my way with just enough light to see the edge of the ocean.

Here is the ferry, already docked, and some of the lights from Old Harbor.

It was new in my life back then, and something I have only found on Block Island, the feeling that I could be free and safe to walk around outside at night.  There was so much space and emptiness, just enough light, and beautiful, beautiful sounds, with mostly quiet, and just the sound of the water or the wind or a fog horn or something far away.

Here is a long-ish exposure, with extra time to collect the bright moonlight.  This picture was taken on the beach on the way to North Light, facing back to the parking lot.  The big stone next to the scrub is Settler's Rock.

I have a friend, a very fine person, who says, “Reach for a star.”  She says, “You may not succeed, but you will never know until you try.”  She says this over and over, to everyone she cares about.  I think this is her superpower because she’s done this in her own life and she makes people believe that they can do it also.  She makes people want to go for it, to take the risks, to act with passion and commitment, to find something they truly love and give it what they have.  So I've decided to do that.   I know that takes many forms at different times in life, including working long hours, getting turned down, getting turned down again, going to school on weekends, sitting in traffic, being interrupted, being pulled in too many directions, being up at night with elders or with children.  That also includes making conscious choices, becoming more generous in every way, finding out how strong and good you can be, finding out what matters.

For me, right now, it means I’m working on some projects.  It’s all very new to me and it involves computers, so each step is a whole foreign country.  I’ve been spending a lot of time and I don’t know if what I'm making will be successful.  So I’m faced with fits and starts, and often with starting over, but it's OK.  In the years, I've learned that times like this are good, very good, and not something to be avoided.  I remember in work like this, that it seldom feels on any given day, that I've made a lot of progress.  It's only with doing it over and over that patterns emerge.  I remind myself that what I do when I don't know is the most important part of any truly generative action.  It occurs to me that I can only reach for a star at night. 

At times like this, I have learned that I will only know what to do next while I’m in the process of doing it.  I can keep on working, letting each step bring me to a place where I can see a little more.  I remind myself that in the past, my vision when I started anything has always been much too small.  I know that sometimes the best, most interesting things are only accomplished through a process of discovery - the unfolding that happens, as not knows turns into knowing and that in turn, creates something completely new in the world.  And that creates a life that before that, wasn't even possible, a little at a time.

This is taken after sunset, really in the dark.  When there is no light in photography, you just need to set up, use a tripod, keep your shutter open, and wait.

There has always been an impulse, a little hunch, and each time I have taken its direction my confidence has grown a little bit more.  I know that I am being made by what I am doing.  So in that sense, whether I achieve my apparent goals or not, I can at least say something has happened.  It’s hard to say what’s more important - what I am doing, or the effort do it, or the development of courage to know who I am, and do what is mine to do.   

So I’m fine.  I keep going.  That's my current plan.

Same thing here.  A long exposure, taken in the dark.

I’m sending my heartfelt good wishes to all of you, for all the changes and projects and tasks and dreams in your lives.  May we be grateful and happy and bold.   May we do it because of love.  Happy holidays, everyone.

First Frost

We went back to Moosup for Thanksgiving and my brother George came up from Virginia for the week.  While we often met in Nova Scotia, with his job and his family and whatnot, he hadn't spent more than a night or so in Connecticut, in over 30 years.

So it was a good thing for the whole family, but I wanted to tell you a little of my own experience about it.  We went to the fish hatchery almost every morning, George to run, like, 3.5 miles in 20 minutes, and me not to do that.  We still were almost exactly like we were when we were children, when it came to loving nature, for example, but there were some pretty big changes.  For one thing, we both had cars. 

There was this mixture.  We were living our lives together just as we had done when we were children, and we were also living like grownups - old-ish grownups, with separate lives, and with separate stories about the past thirty years, and with our own grown-up children.

It was 18 degrees Fahrenheit on this particular morning, which I found a little disconcerting.  (When I had gotten on the ferry on Block Island, it had been 45 degrees.)  I hadn't even brought a coat.  Everything had frozen at the hatchery, but it was newly frozen.  Things hadn't had time to get pulverized by the winter, so they still had their beautiful fall formations, with just a layer of frost upon them.  The ponds were still warm, and steaming, and that made for a lot of localized, heavy frost and for some very interesting pictures.

I feel compelled to tell you that George is a lot thinner in fact, than he looks in this picture.  It's just that his arms are up and that's stretching out his hunting vest.  That's Molly with him.

George said he liked my pictures, but that was because they made him remember he had been at the hatchery on a beautiful morning with his sister.  Wasn't that a nice thing to say?

Good Ones

Sometimes I think about the fact that I’ve been taking wave pictures, primarily here on Block Island, for more than 10 years.  I go out a lot and on any given day I’ll take somewhere between 400 and 1000 pictures.  I go out when ever I am able.  That’s a lot of wave pictures. 

I ask myself whether I will get sick of them, or whether it would be more fun to take pictures in Hawaii for example, or in the Bahamas.  I’m certainly up for that, but I want to tell you what it’s like, time after time.  Here, in this place.  I go out and it's hot or cold or in between.   The waves are enormous with an impact so deep and powerful I feel it in the ground and against my whole body.  Or not.  They are blowing back.  Or not.  They are coming in orderly rolls, or thrashing around like soapy water in a washing machine.  Their color is grey or black or green or blue or purple or silver or red or golden.  The wind is blasting with sand or it’s lightly brushing my skin and bringing the scent of roses.  Their crests are like soft cotton or they are carrying diamonds. 

I would say that even after all the years, there are times when I get to see waves like I’ve never, ever seen them before.  But that’s not the most important thing… I mean, that’s pretty interesting but that’s not the reason I love them. 

I know there have been a lot of changes lately.  A lot of us have lost things that we dearly love.  I have come to feel that when that happens, when we lose something big, we actually have to disintegrate inside for a little while.  It’s as if we have to reshape our lives, make our lives over again.  I think that grieving is physical.  It’s a time for resting, and for going down as deep as you can and knowing what you love.  You know, it’s like that butterfly thing… the caterpillar actually liquefies inside.  All its organs turn into mush in order to reorganize. 

I think that loss is part of what makes us beautiful and wonderful, makes us true human beings.   It takes time, but I think that life is built for that, we are built for that, and healing forces come.   Sometimes it helps me to be transparent, I mean, to just let the energies of life keep moving in me, as unobstructedly as possible.  Like water.  Like waves in the water.

There is nothing better for me than to see the ocean crashing around, or more to feel it - to let that power and energy get a hold of my body.  It comes to me, it blows right into me and through me.  It gives me something I need.

These are some good waves taken at the end of October, just after a storm passed by.

Observable Light

I asked myself if it helped Wilson to see me so upset and I decided to try to feel better.   I asked myself if other people hadn’t also done this… made room for some happiness in the midst of the sorrow in their lives.

I figured out that chances are, the natural world I love, the one I feel so close to, the one I find so beautiful, has probably dealt with death before and that it’s probably got this covered.  I decided I would trust it. 

So I put on a smile.   At first I felt that I was pushing my face muscles against a mask of sadness, but then I had a little more courage.  And then I found I could hold a lot of things that I wouldn’t have thought I could hold in the same moment.   Sorrow and love and happiness and beauty and sweetness and careful attention to Wilson all remained together and one did not diminish the other. 

Wilson and Molly and I went out to the water.  We went to Mansion Beach and Wilson was able to walk himself out there.  I made him a little fort to keep him out of the sun. 

The storm from the last four days had passed and light was in the water.  Long rollers were coming in.  Now, I’m the last one to say that everything should be all shiny.  I like dark water very much.  But on this particular day, all that sparkle, all that laughing energy was good for my heart.  After four days of rolling and boiling, the water was still so clear.   It could still carry all of that light inside it. 

We couldn’t stay long.  It was really too hot for Wilson, but I was able to get a few pictures.  I carried him back to the car, and we had a fine day.  We went to Andy’s Way, and we rode around in the car.  He rested against the towel I used to prop him but he smiled and he lifted his nose to the wind.  In the afternoon we went to Ballard’s Beach where the building could give him shade in the afternoon.  The rollers were still coming in.  I had been wondering if it mattered to Wilson, if he or any other dog gets the same energy as we do from big waves crashing.  I’ll tell you this.  He loved it. 

I returned this morning after taking Wilson out for a drive.  He slept the whole time and when I put him by the water, he didn’t lift up his head.  He was working too hard to breathe.  I could feel his heart pounding.  I just got back from the grocery store, and this is one of the things about Block Island, that half the people knew about Wilson.  They said it is one of the prices we pay on the island; that we will not be able to get to a vet in time to prevent real suffering.  They told me their stories.   They said not to wait.  We felt like we were together in something.   I just made the arrangements to get off the island and put Wilson down.  I just walked into the house.

The light is bouncing off the ocean, and is beaming in and shining on the ceiling all the way into the hallway, the darkest part of our house.  I have gone to get my camera and am lying down on the floor.  The light has separated into all its colors and as the sun moves the light across the ceiling, I am content to lie here and watch and take pictures as they slowly merge back together. 

I don’t know, I don’t know at all, how the light that fills our eyes and lives will carry our good Wilson, but I know it carried him to us.  And meantime, this is the situation we’ve got right now, and we know what we have to do and we accept it, and Wilson is ours and we love him. 

PS.  We put Wilson down a week ago last Monday.  Bill was right there also.  Our vet did a wonderful job.  Wilson was so beautiful.  I felt an unexpected burst of joy and gratitude at the very second of his passing.   I could easily have missed it.  It was so small, just like maybe the feeling of the wind from the wings of a little bird flying by.  I don’t know how to say this.  I was overwhelmed at first, when Wilson’s death was in the immediate present, to realize how death is part of everything, how life includes death every minute.   It’s not something I experience all the time, even while I’m writing this now I’ve forgotten.  But what I felt at first was how much of life is given to us, how costly that is.  I saw all the death it takes to keep us going.  And of course these animals come and give us their whole lives.  I saw life gives itself to us all the time.  It spends itself for us, so freely.  It made me feel that there’s more to who and what we are, more to all of us, animal, vegetable, mineral, so much more than we realize.  It made me feel precious.  It made the whole thing feel precious.

I think of him now.  I carry a stone in my pocket for him.  I hold him in the biggest, brightest place I can imagine, and with the most freedom and beauty, and perhaps, if possible, with the tastiest snacks.  I feel love - his love, my love, “the” love?  I don’t know.  But that’s what helps me the most.

Grief is physical.  I think so.  I need to rest.  I feel pretty naked.  But here I am with every other person who has ever lost someone she loves.  

We’ll be alright.  We are alright.  


Wilson, eleven years ago.

We were living on the boat this summer.  Wilson and Molly and I had come back that morning from a long swim along the edge of Great Salt Pond, and another walk in the afternoon.  Wilson stumbled at dinner… went right down flat with his legs splayed out.  So we went over to him and he got up and he seemed all right. 

I rowed the dogs to shore in the morning and Wilson went into the grass and faced the hill, away from the ocean.  He had never done that before, he had always looked out to see what was happening.  And beyond that he seemed a little vague.  There was clearly something wrong with him.  So I packed our stuff and we called the launch so that we could get from our mooring to the island.  Then we had to wait for the ferry to the mainland.  Bill spoke to the Chief and he set us up on the car deck so that Wilson wouldn’t have to climb the stairs.  We had to load Wilson on from the freight area and as we waited we saw all the cars and trucks come in to pick up their groceries and building supplies and packages.  Some people positioned their cars so that others could get around them, and others thought that it would be all right to save a minute by blocking somebody else, as if they would be the only one who would do that.  The result of course, was gridlock.  In any case, we got Wilson onto the ferry.   I fixed my eyes on the ocean, steadying my emotions, and held myself like that during the hour ride to the mainland.  Every single young man who worked on the crew came over to see us.  Did I need a drink of water?  Could they wait with Wilson for me so I could take a little break?  Another man came out of his truck.  He did it three times.  Could he do anything for us?  Anything at all?  Was I sure?


Our niece Elizabeth and Wilson.

We got to the vet by about 3 in the afternoon.  She took one look at Wilson and immediately sent us to Ocean State Veterinary Hospital, where a whole team of people converged upon him.  His heart rate was 250 beats per minute and they could find no reason, nor could they bring it down.  They gave him three medicines and nothing happened.  Then early the next morning, his heart rate suddenly stabilized.  He was in the hospital for four days.  They did every test you can imagine and still didn’t find the cause.  They sent us home with beta blockers and antibiotics and put us on a waiting list to see a cardiologist.  I decided to stay on the mainland where I could keep Wilson in air conditioning and we made tentative plans to take him to Nova Scotia as soon as we could get that appointment.  So the following week we were all packed up and on our way, and the cardiologist was looking at Wilson.  He was in there longer than expected and when I came in he showed me the ultrasound, and the tumor in the center of Wilson’s heart.  He said it was a highly aggressive cancer.  He said Wilson would be dead in 2 – 6 months.








We decided to take him to Nova Scotia and stay where it was foggy and cool and where we could be together on my families’ land on the Bay of Fundy.  We have a little house so at night we could sleep inside, away from coyotes and porcupines, but for the daytime, we put up a tent on the land.  I was careful with Wilson at first, but when he broke away from me and ran down a bank to get to the ocean I decided to let him figure out how busy he could be.  We sat on the land, saw the waves come in, over and over, never stopping, the big tides washing in and out over rocks that are 350 million years old.  We watched the pine and cedar through the fog in the distance, the grasses bending together in the wind.  That’s what I saw anyway.  Wilson saw deer bones and seal bones, which he dragged from the rocks, up to our camp, until it looked decidedly Paleolithic.  I didn’t care. I thought if he wanted them, he should have them, and I thought that a few probiotics never hurt anyone.  I brushed him and brushed him, and Molly too, leaving massive amounts of fur, until it looked like golden retrievers had been shorn like sheep all over our land.  Wilson was very happy and so was Molly.  I was working to a schedule, trying to be productive, so I would go out every day and write until the battery on my computer ran out.  I was trying so hard, working with so many thoughts and emotions.  I didn’t stop until the great electronic angel of death came by.  It broke the hard drive in my computer and the battery in my car on the same night.  After that I had a little peace and quiet, and I rested, being held in that place, feeling the presence of that place.

This is our land.


Wilson (in back) and Molly.

I remembered how I had fallen in love with Wilson when he was a tiny puppy, how my love for him was made partly out of my grief for Mystie, the Samoyed we had lost a year and a half before.  I thought how he and Molly have been with me in every picture I have taken, how they have stayed with me every minute, how important that is when you live on an island.  Sometimes Bill has been overseas for six weeks at a time, and it was Wilson and Molly who made it so I was never alone. 

I remembered how it seemed like such a miracle, this puppy who didn’t exist at all just weeks before I met him.  I felt like all the bouncing, joyful, curious, loving, playful energy in the universe had gathered into this furry little peanut.  I wondered if he had gotten a tumor in his heart because he thought I didn’t want him and at those times, I thought that my heart was going to kill me also.  Then I wondered if I could learn something, if I could find something in being with Wilson at the end of his life, that was as close and dear as all the times I had with him when he was small.

We stayed in Nova Scotia for the rest of July and part of August, and leaving was quite a transition.  I had seen the reliability in nature, with the waves coming, the grasses bending, the birds in formation, the sun setting, the dark night sky and the Milky Way so bright and clear.  I had felt the patterns, taken them in.  Then we rode the ferry from Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.  Then we drove off into a Saturday night in downtown Portland, Maine.  Headlights beamed.  Music blared from every restaurant.  People popped out suddenly, into the street.  Cars cut me off in the dark, in the rain, in fast moving traffic.



Wilson and his good friend, Star.

I hadn’t realized how random people are, how within a group of people anything can happen at any time.  I saw all those people, all with their own agendas, all at the center of their own perceptions.  Hurrying, trying to get in first, pushing to gain some ground.  I felt like an Eskimo coming out of the tundra, battered in staggering chaos.

It’s been almost three months now and Wilson has started fainting. At first, he’d try to run away from it, and that would knock him out cold.  Now he’s smarter about it.  He starts to stagger and he stops and waits.  He wants to ride in the car, front seat by the window, in the coveted spot.  I’ve made a sling for him so that he won’t fall if he faints while I’m driving.  We take walks.  We take a step and wait, take another step and wait. And sometimes he stops and won’t go any further.  I have found that I am able to carry him.






While this has been happening, we’ve moved, and had a photography show, and then we moved and then moved again, and we had a wonderful little grandson, and now we’re back in the house, and putting our offices together, and unpacking the kitchen, and so on.  But this is what I want to tell you.  In the middle of all of this, I still feel like I have so much time.  I’ve had all this slow walking with Wilson, all this sitting by his side, and even though everything has gotten done in its time (more or less), I’ve done none of my usual rushing around.  It’s been making the days feel long, like the way they were when I was a little girl.  It’s made me think I can do as much by going more slowly, or do as much that matters.  It’s made me wonder if being so busy is only for people who think they will live forever, and if there are times in life where time deepens and stretches, when time gives itself in a different way, when all that matters is being together.


Wilson and his very good friend, Edie.

I was sitting in Great Salt Pond with Wilson.  Molly was running up and down on the beach.  It had started to rain.  I was up to my chest in the water and Wilson was on my lap.  A man was walking on the beach with his black lab.  I explained about Wilson.  He said, “That’s too bad.”  The sky cleared just enough and he said, “I think there will be a rainbow.  Then he said, “Yes.  Oh, there it is!”  I didn’t tell him that I couldn’t see it from where I was sitting, because he was so happy to be able to say something hopeful.  But then while it was still raining, the sun came through the raindrops and they started to shine like diamonds. They were hitting the dark water.  It would have been a quite a picture.

I can’t take pictures right now.  I need my hands free for Wilson.  But I still have my eyes and I can still see the beauty.  I still trust this beautiful world. 

Bill is here and we’re going through this together.  There are times in life when you see what your husband is made of.  When Wilson started fainting, I would drop right down next to him, all hover-y and upset.  Bill decided that Wilson needed happiness.  So he pulled himself together, got down on the floor all excited when Wilson opened his eyes.  He got Wilson smiling, got his tail thumping on the floor. 




The vet says that Wilson is not suffering.   I can feel myself getting ready.  It’s getting harder for Wilson to eat.  Today he refused both chicken and steak.  I finally got him to take some hamburger by showing him that I would give it to Molly if he didn’t eat it.

I have lived this summer on the big hearts of others, on beauty, on cool fog, on a growing sense of a palpable presence in nature.  I realize how much we need each other.  Now I’m all wrung out from telling you this story, but I’ve taken my computer outside and everything has immediately gotten better.  My dogs know this.  They have shown me how to know it as well.  Nature is intimate, personal.

Wilson is still strong with a beautiful coat and with clear eyes.  It’s just that he needs his heart.  It’s made me see how fragile life is, how we’re held at the very margin.  It’s a good thing that nature meets us because we’re totally dependent upon it.  Because we are made out of it, made by it.  It is who we are.

Wilson and his friend, Sondi.

The grief and strain caught up with me, the other day, on Water Street.  There was a lot of very poor automotive behavior all compressed into the spot where the folks drive out of the freight area by the ferry.  That was intermingled with three sets of jaywalkers, taking advantage of a one foot opening to plow between the cars and into in the road.   One particular woman was starting to cross the road at Chapel Street.  She couldn't make up her mind.  She was smiling and laughing, changing her mind and and going back and then starting again.  She may have been the only pedestrian on Block Island in an actual crosswalk, but she was holding up the car that was letting her do this, the one that had been the third to squeeze out in front of me when I had the right of way.  And that car was holding up cars in four directions.  I started yelling and bouncing around.  The poor woman who until that moment, had thought she was being adorable, looked like she was going to cry.  Then every other jaywalker in the universe came out in the next hundred yards.  I had to pull over because after brief but careful consideration, I realized I was in the mood to run them over, or perhaps just to bump them a little bit.

Then I remembered how those people could also be good to Wilson.  That’s what we’re like, we humans, capable of a range of behaviors that luckily for me, at least in my life, at least for now, are expressed in very small ways.  I'm not in a war.  I'm not running for my life.  I'm not starving.  I just have to get through this one fine day, and possibly enjoy it.  Because I won’t live forever; because all the small things matter; because it is enough just to be here; because we're not alone; because I don’t have to hurry; because Wilson and I belong in this world.

There is a light drizzle.  I can hear the waves.  There’s a big storm coming up the coast but the clouds have broken a little to the west and it’s pink way over there, just for a minute, just in a small spot.  The clouds are low and smudgy.  Most everything is grey but the wind is soft and cool.  The sound of the ocean is beautiful.  Wilson and Molly are lying on the grass, facing the wind together.

I am here, right now, with Wilson still alive.  I’m so lucky.  There has never been a better dog than Wilson.  

PS.  When Wilson stopped eating completely and the boats were not running for the foreseeable future on account of the storm, and there was no way to take him anywhere, I talked to Bill and to my sister Cathy who is a pharmacist.  We made a decision to slowly cut back on Wilson’s beta blockers.   He’s down now, to about a third of the dose he was on.  His heart rate might be at risk, but I believe we’d be putting him down if we hadn’t done this.  Now, he’s eating.  He’s walking.  He’s not staggering or fainting.  He’s wagging his tail.  So maybe we have another chance for some time with him, at least for a little bit.  I’ll take it.