I am undoubtedly a people person. I come alive in airports, on dance floors, crushed between bodies at concerts. I call people in the car on a four-minute drive so I can talk my way from my house to the nearest store, and I hug instead of shake hands. It’s not that I don’t like to be alone—I dream of island hammocks and quiet mountain hikes. It’s that I’ve forgotten how to really be alone. I’ve fallen victim to bad habits that have trained me to think I need to be stimulated—my family, my friends, my tablet, my house, my twitter. I need to be doing something because there’s always something to be done. And when I’m alone, I twitch. My solitude muscles have atrophied.
I don't like that so I kind of want to make an attepmt to be alone next week. I digress.
I wasn't a very observant person before last year. I thought about what my hair looked like, if my skin was broken out or not (I don't even know why because my skin doesn't do that) and what people were thinking about me. And that last one? One of the most powerful realizations one can come to in life is accepting that people are not thinking about you. They're thinking about themselves. That sounds harsh, but it's true. If you only realized how much people don't recognize your hair or your skin or your jean size because they're worried about their own hair, skin and jean size--well, it takes a lot of pressure off. Thank God.
I've always thought about people in an "Are they hurting?" kind of way because I believe that's a special gift I was given. My parents say when I was very young, on more than one occasion, I asked to leave my family's table at a restaurant to sit with an elderly who ate alone because it made me sad. My presence could have very well annoyed these poor grandmas who, for the love of God, just wanted a chance to be alone, but that gift of knowing when to butt out of people's lives and let them be hadn't yet been bestowed. I'm still waiting for that one.
So I thought a lot about myself. And I thought about people who were hurting--at least the ones in my direct line of vision. But that was about it. The rest of the world, the lessons hidden in my environment, the way light hits the trees late in the afternoon or how, if you look closely, snowflakes aren't just flakes but intricate symmetrical crystals--I didn't take the time to really notice.
It used to drive my mom crazy. She drove me home from school, and she'd point out everything on our drives--flowers, houses with cool front doors, new coffee shops with eye-catching signs.
"Did you see those hostas back there? They were huge!," she'd exclaim. And I'd answer "What hostas?" because I was too busy thinking about how the car window was reflecting my bangs back to me and I could see that they were crooked.
She'd scold me. "You don't notice things." And I'd argue "Yes I do," quickly covering my lack of observance with the first hint of beauty I saw out the car window. "Those tulips--yes, I saw them." She'd laugh and remind me of just how oblivious I was to my environment, digging up the Proof of All Proof stories--that one time when I was biking out of my friends' driveway, unaware of the three bags of garbage directly in front of me. As the story goes, my friends jumped up and down, waving and shouting, alerting me of the garbage, but the freeway on the other side of the wall was so loud and I was already far away so I didn't hear them. So I waved back thinking it was just an enthusiastic goodbye. And I kept biking and waving, ripping garbage bags to shreds and dragging pop cans and milk jugs and moldy paper towels down the dirt road. I didn't even notice until the bike nearly fell over. Still waving. Still smiling. Because those sweet friends were giving me the enthusiastic goodbye of a lifetime. So, I guess I couldn't argue with that story. Yes, I was oblivious to a lot of things.
A lot happened in the year that followed. I created a twitter which was
huge -- you guys pointed things out and taught me how to think for myself. I suddenly noticed everything, from controversial and sensitive topics, to how awesome my pets are. I like that Joel's toes look like beans. I want to write sonnets about Abby's eyelashes.
I think, for me though, observance of the world around me truly took a new meaning when I started writing and taking pictures.
When it comes to complicated technical camera knowledge, I feel small compared to many of the great minds in the photography world who study and teach these things every day. I am confident behind my own camera though, and I have learned a lot from others--things I'm willing to share. The more I think about it though, I realize I can share the story of
why I take pictures--how photography changed me in a lot of ways and makes me more aware of everything the world has to offer. It plays an important role in my life, and my journey behind the camera mirrors my personal journey closely, especially the last few years. I am excited to share this journey, and the scattered notes and favorite photos (okay, embarrassing over-edited ones too) that are piling up as I prepare can attest to my excitement.
Similarly, writing has made me more aware of everything--not only the world around me, but my own feelings and judgments and opportunities for improvement as well. Writing almost every day naturally stimulates these "What am I going to write about?" receptors. And while I cannot go about life searching for things to write about--life needs to happen first--I do find that since writing, I think a little more deeply. I let myself become more vulnerable, I push myself to discover more, to read more, to fill up the wells within so that I have something to write about (which translates to "something to think about," "something to live by," "something to make me change" or fill-in-the-blank as you wish). It's a complicated, wonderful cycle of input and output, and these two principles depend upon each other.
So this afternoon as I went through my weekend photos and sat down to write, I couldn't help but notice how much easier it gets to put something on paper because I am learning to observe, to listen, and to be aware. Yes, there will always be writer's block and periods of quiet inspiration. But I wait--because there is always something to write about. There are always moments to capture. The things we choose are just a fraction of the things that await our attention.
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It's Tuesday. We're off to a good start.
