Friday, October 16, 2015

capturing the silvery ripples

As we dashed up Cadillac Mountain's auto road, the sun was just beginning to set.  Julia was getting her own picture taking device, an iPod, ready so she could try to capture a picture of the colors in the sky.  Not able to find parking, Jonathan dropped us off so we could walk to a look-out point.  It was cold.  Freezing cold.  And though we had grabbed our cameras, we had not grabbed our jackets.  We shivered and rocked and huddled and took pictures.  And then retreated fast to the car when Jonathan looped back around again.

Julia looked over her shoulder as she hopped back in the car.  Those islands.  They are just like if Kazu Kibuishi drew them.  In Amulet.

And she was so very right.  

And more importantly, she was doing it, what we do here by returning each year.  She was working our language of reading together, creating images, imagined and real, and weaving it all together.  Making meaning.  Making stories.  Comparing across mediums.  And across time.

Next day, Julia spent a good deal of time teasing me about taking pictures.  Leaves just beginning to color, textures so on the brink.  It was so tempting.

But her good natured teasing, it was truly quite hilarious.  And was really just another thing for me to take pictures of.

And she thought it quite funny that I was taking a picture of a sign for the bathrooms.  And honestly, I had not noticed the sign.  I just thought the alley was pretty.

And I did my best not to point out to her that she was doing much the same thing.  Wait a sec Mommy.  I want to try to get the silvery ripples.

I sat down to get this picture and she sat beside me.  What are you taking a picture of?  she asked.

That's weird, she said.  But look over there.  Look up.

And look into the woods.  It's like the scary woods of a fairy tale.

And look at that tree.  It'

The next morning started with a necessary trip to the hardware store for an extremely important but forgotten bolt and while Jonathan and Elliott zipped into town, Nicholas did his cross country running homework, running loops through the campground and on the hiking trail while Julia and I ran along much more slowly behind him.  The image of Nicholas popping up here and there in brief glimpses through the trees, running on his own through the woods.  I was struck by how much has changed over the years of coming here.  Of changing interests and activities and growth.  That image of his blond hair catching the sun through the piney woods is a new image.  And one that though I have no picture of it, I will surely remember.

But also?  This one.  Of Julia in my shoes and my fleece.    Running ahead of me.

Passing her brother.

Running out of my sight.

When with me, Julia gasped as we rounded a corner.  It's like Narnia here.

When will she stop saying things like this, seeing images of her childhood, seeing Narnia, in everything new she sees? Stop gasping when she walks into a quiet spongy mossy light dappled forest?

Well.  I have not stopped seeing it that way.  And I have her to remind me if I do.

Wait.  Mommy.  I am taking a picture of you taking a picture.

Julia's picture of me

We gather up these images.  From books, illustrated stories and stories from text, and stories told.  We take our own images.  We stop in our tracks when something visual grabs at us.  Makes us stop.  Sometimes we want to take a picture of it.  

And, sometimes, too, we just notice it as we are racing by.  We look.  Breathe.  And then keep on going.  Either then, or perhaps later, the connections to other things we have seen and heard and been told all begin rushing in.  Layering on top of one another.  But that image is just as in there as one we can call up later on a computer screen.  

I get a good deal of teasing for the picture taking I do.  But I can't help but notice we are all doing it.  And carrying it forward with us as we return to our daily lives.  It trickles in, and I find little bits of it here and there about the house.  As we keep on growing.

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