The Artist.

During this lull in my life where I struggle with both direction and simple things like, you know, getting out the door I have been taking on editing work for other photographers. I love this because it’s a way to keep my hand in the business while not having to deal with the outside world. The photos arrive to me and I quietly spend the days colour correcting, straightening, removing blemishes, adjusting contrast. It’s meditative work. It allows my mind to wander while my eyes do their job. I also discovered I feel better at the end of the day because I can flick through the images and see I have completed a task.

And I learned something about myself. I was a good photographer. I was good. I was an artist. But I was never a businesswoman. The business side of things confounded me. I didn’t know how to sell myself because every image I took I poured a little of myself into and I didn’t know how to say to people, “You’re paying me because I am worth this.” It went against my nature.

I never told people this but the day I gave up weddings was because a client came back to me and said she wasn’t happy. I had had a couple of portrait clients do that before and I would always offer a reshoot. We would do it again and piece together a gallery from both sessions. But it was never my fault before, it was always something like the baby was fussy that day and the mum really wanted smiling images. Or I suggested an outdoor shoot and mum wanted studio and then changed her mind after the session. And the beauty of portraits was we COULD redo. Weddings are kind of a one shot deal. This wedding – it was fine. During family formals – in the midday sun on a beach, no less – the bride was getting anxious for them to be over. She was frustrated because her aunt was insisting on different groupings that the bride and groom hadn’t put on the list and she turned to me and said, “Just shoot them, it doesn’t matter. I just want her to shut up. I don’t really care.” I mentioned moving to a different location where the sun was less offensive, I was patient. In the end the shots were taken, occasionally not every person was looking at the camera. A child might be looking at his mother for example. To me – these were not flaws. This was life. I shot some beautiful images of the bridal party. Halfway through reception they asked me to stay an extra two hours and said they would pay me extra. I was exhausted by this point, but agreed and said not to worry about additional payment.

I delivered the gallery and the bride picked her shots and seemed pleased. A couple of weeks later the mother of the bride sent me a message with an attached image of a random wedding shot by her relative and said, “This is how you take real wedding photos.” The image received was standard amateur work. It was not technically correct and it was very average. I spent a long time looking at that image wondering what she was talking about. And then I realised she was meaning it as a stab at me. “See this guy who is my relative – he is so much better than you. You’re a fraud.”

I wrote her a response outlining that I was an accredited photographer with a well respected association in Australia, the closest thing we had to a governing body. That my work had been assessed by them as of a professional standard. That I did a perfectly acceptable professional job on her daughters images. Okay, maybe at the end I may have thrown in, “I wonder if he has been similarly assessed?” Whatever. I was salty.

The bride told me after she received the images she was pretty disappointed that she thought during family formals I would yell out “one, two, three, smile!” So they would know I was taking the picture. Because apparently me standing in front of them with a camera shouting, “Eyes over here!” And clicking furiously wasn’t a good indication.

Oh man. I KNEW I did nothing wrong that day. I knew the photos were good. But it devastated me. I just didn’t have enough confidence in myself to deal with that. I shot about three weddings after that one, the tail end of my booked sessions. (You best believe I shouted ‘one, two, three, smile!’ just in case though). And then I just packed up that part of my work. Nope. No more.

It was the artist in me that threw in the towel. Because this wasn’t just a job. This was myself. When they said, “I don’t like this”, it felt like someone saying, “I don’t like you.” If I had been a better business woman I probably would have rolled with it, picked up, moved on. Kicked ass. But I didn’t because the artist doesn’t know how. The artist creates because they must. It’s a drive, a force, a muse. I don’t create to make money, I never did.

I was a bad businesswoman. But I was a damn good photographer. I know that now.

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Awkward and Precious.

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I made a conscious effort lately to pull out the camera and take photos of life. Not posed images but the images where the Doritos are still in a packet on the kitchen table and the kids faces are illuminated by their phones. The images where we are in the car or there is a smudge of dirt on a five year olds cheek. The ones where I set the timer and hop back into place and find out later the focus totally missed the mark and the table I leaned it on is in focus and we are but a kaleidoscope of colours. We could be anyone.

Wrinkles. Blemishes. Hair messed up. Sweatpants.

Life.

I’ve fallen in love with these images. Their imperfections and the impermanent of it. Just a second in time, gone. I feel like a journalist, like a historian. Every time I press the shutter I think – this will mean something some day. These will be the images that hold my attention. There is no bullshit here, no trappings.

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When I use to shoot, clients would often say, “We like unposed photos.” And I would have to explain to them that EVERY image in my portfolio was posed. Every single one. The ones that looked candid were really just disguised poses.

“Hold on to Daddy’s leg so he doesn’t run away.”

“Can you kiss Mummy on the cheek?”

“Pretend you like each other.”

Laughter.

Click. Click. Click.

A friend once sent me a text from nowhere last year when I was in the depths of depression and asked how I was. We hadn’t talked in over 12 months but she use to be one of my best friends and had been my confidante for years. Then life got in the way and we drifted apart and I felt like a shitty friend and the more time that went by the more I felt embarrassed about reconnecting with her. I don’t know how she knew to reach out to me then. I cried when I got her message which was simply little more than, “I’m thinking of you.” I apologised for being a crappy friend and she told me there was nothing to be sorry for – which of course made me cry more. I lay my sorrows at her feet and told her I couldn’t stop crying, I cried all day for weeks at just about everything and she said to me, “Life is awkward and precious.”

I loved that so much I wrote it down and went back to it every now and then. Because it is awkward. The mess, the reality, the indignities. The laughs where you snort during them. The tears that smear your eye makeup. The sweat. The blood. The sex. The love.

And, my god. It is precious.

Statistically Unsafe.

Last week my daughter had an unpleasant experience with a male customer who was being lewd and gross. I won’t get into what happened because it was her story and is not mine to tell. However, when S and I were going to pick her up from work and S told me that J had texted her about it during the day I was worried she would come out really shaken and not want to go back. To the contrary she brushed it off as nothing.

And that kind of made me mad.

Because she is a woman this kind of thing will undoubtably happen to her time and time again and at 18 she had already accepted that. She had already become used to it. She already failed to be shocked by it.

I have four daughters, five including S who has been living with me for the last 7 months and who I love like my own. Statistically bad shit is likely to happen to one of them. When I was relaying the statistics for sexual assault against women to my partner – 1 in 6 women are raped – he said, “That can’t be right. That can’t be.” It’s not that he doesn’t believe me. It’s that he can’t wrap his mind around the sheer enormity of it. When I discussed his reaction with my therapist she said she felt the stats were grossly underestimated and she would put it more like 6 out of 10.

Here is the thing. I’m fucking outraged at this. I am. I am a woman who has shared articles about the unfairness of victim blaming. I am a woman who has been enraged by articles or sound bites from people that talk about, “How to stay safe.” Because fuck you, that’s why. We shouldn’t have to alter our daily lives so men don’t rape us. Men should just stop raping us. I know that. I hate that I have to tell my daughters how to navigate this world by altering their behaviour because I know I shouldn’t have to.

But I do.

I do it anyway because I want them to come home. And you know what I hate more than the fact I do that? I hate that I don’t even have to. Because they already know. Instinctively, they already know. Like some strange evolutionary trait attached to the second X chromosome, my daughters already understand and avoid walking too close to the alley so they don’t get pulled in but not too close to the street so they don’t get ripped into a car. They already know to watch drinks. Walk in groups. Text your friends. Make sure your girlfriends are in your line of sight at a party. Sometimes in sheer desperation I hand my daughters pieces of other women’s stories as though by invoking the spirits of these women who never made it home I will somehow help my daughter to return to me.

I can’t reconcile these two parts of myself. The part of me that wants to give them the tools to help them come home unscathed and the part of me that hates myself for having to do it.

To my daughter, I’m sorry you had to deal with that man. I’m sorry you will have to deal with something like that over and over throughout your life for the crime of being a female. It’s not fair.

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You are Real.

I hate the ‘real women have curves’ trend.

It’s not because I happen to be a skinny woman. I haven’t always been a skinny woman, I’ve had curves once (and boobs – God, I miss boobs sometimes). I was a real woman then, and I am a real woman now.

I hate it because it does exactly what magazines and society did to curvy women for years. Pits one body type against another. Builds up one type of woman at the expense of another type.

It’s a whole lot of, check out what women use to look like and check them out now. As though the ‘good old days’ were great for women. Let’s just take a stroll through these offensive ads from Business Insider including this gem.

Women weren’t empowered and letting their natural beauty show in the fifties. They were repeatedly told how their attractiveness had a direct correlation to their worth.

And now, in 2016 we are supposed to hold up that standard as the ‘good old days’?

Fuck you. Fuck you so hard.

I guarantee you women have been made in all shapes and sizes since the beginning of time and will continue to be so for the rest of humankind’s existence on this planet.

I have shot a lot of people. I have shot women of all ages and all shapes and sizes. Curvy women, slim women, young women, older women, mothers, daughters. And every single one of them have been beautiful. I have never had a client I looked at and didn’t find beauty in.

Real women? If you identify as a woman – you are a REAL WOMAN.

Stop letting society tell you it’s okay to be beautiful only if someone else is less beautiful.

In fact, stop letting society tell you that your beauty is just a sum of your physical parts. And you KNOW this already. You know. You’ve been told your whole damn life that beauty is only skin deep, that a kind heart is worth more than a pretty face.

Celebrate yourself. Your laugh, your kindness, your fire, your wildness, your scars, your wit, your sensuality, your brains, your empathy.

There is a little divinity in all of us.

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The Ex Factor.

One of the best things I have done was to be friends with my ex husband.

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We aren’t the kind of friends who sit down for a meal but who knows, it’s not even been three years since we separated. We are the kind of friends who call the other a couple of times a week for ten or twenty minute conversations to catch up on news about the kids and relay what the other is doing in their life. We troubleshoot difficult behaviour between the kids together. We discuss how best to integrate our respective partners into our children’s lives.

This is not luck. We didn’t fall out of a relationship and just magically become pleasant to each other. Many times in the beginning one of us hurled mean words at the other down the phone, words designed to cut and sting. Frequently one of us was angry or upset. It is difficult work to untangle your lives when you have been a team for 13 years. We were not lucky to get along. We worked at it.

It was a case of being careful to keep your emotions in check around your children. It was important to remind them that the other parent loved them and that we were both there for them. It meant one of us frequently going out of our way to make the four hundred kilometre round trip so that the kids didn’t miss a visit when one of us couldn’t do it.

It was over a year before we could discuss things without just sticking to basics. It was a slow progression from painful conversation to pleasant.

When you separate and you have children it can be difficult to maintain the equilibrium. Holidays are hard. Birthdays are hard. It’s hard to know another woman is taking your daughter to buy bras or watch your kid open Christmas presents. And you have to just swallow that down because at the end of the day, I would much rather my kids have a step mother who loves them and cares for them than a step mother who resents them. It’s bittersweet.

And slowly, over time, you truly do wish them well. I am thrilled he is in love with someone and she truly seems to love him back. I use to say he wasn’t an easy man to love. I have come to realise that maybe that was because I was the wrong person to love him. I am thrilled she hugs my children when she sees them and that they run into her arms. Why would I wish my children less love and more conflict? This is what is best for them.

For my children – being friends with their father is one of the things I know I have done completely right.

Beautiful.

When I was about 10 we had a school camp. I can’t remember where we went but it was out bush somewhere and there were cabins and a tennis court and some really awesome swimming pools that no one supervised us using because it was 1991 and life was different back then. If one of us had of drowned it probably would have been our fault and the whole class would have gotten detention or something. And the drowned kid probably would have been threatened with the cane. Anyway, while we were there we had a formal dinner and everyone was supposed to bring a nice dress or, for the guys, a nice pair of pants and button up long sleeved shirt.

THIS WAS A BIG DEAL.

Seriously it was a huge deal. Because not only was it a formal dinner but a guy had to ask you and you had to pair with them and it was expected that he pull out your chair, fetch your plate and dance with you at some point. You wouldn’t get away with it these days. Can you imagine? You would probably get sued because girls are capable of getting their own plates. But again, 1991.

So anyway, my mother is a wonderful seamstress. Now days if you make your own clothes they have a kitch term called ‘handmaiden’ which is a play on ‘handmade’ and ‘maiden’ which is probably also not very PC but back in 1991 if you sewed your own clothes you were just a seamstress. Mum took to the challenge of a dress for a formal dinner with an enthusiasm that shocked me. She found a pattern for a gown, and I mean it was a serious gown with wide off the shoulder bands, a sweetheart neckline, a full skirt that was tea dress length and a fabric rose pinned between my boobs if I had of had any, but I didn’t because – once again, it was 1991. She made it from yards and yards of white puffy sheer fabric with little black felt dots the size of a match head and I basically looked like Cinderella.

It was over the top. The other girls were sporting the very best Myer had to offer or whatever but no one had a Cinderella dress because we were 10. To add to the Cinderella effect I am not sure anyone had ever even noticed I existed much before unless it was in the capacity of best friend to my best friend who was this adorable little elfin thing and a twin to boot so everyone loved her. I was the 1991 version of that ugly friend that the cute chick has. (Don’t worry, when puberty hit I became completely rocking but back then still totally invisible). I don’t know if I had ever worn a dress in front of these people before. I did own the world’s ugliest tracksuit I wore without a care because it was warm and I didn’t give a shit about fashion. I wore sneakers with basically everything I owned. I wore socks with flats. I shouldn’t have been allowed to dress myself but it was 1991 and parents didn’t care if you looked weird so long as you came home before the streetlights.

Okay, so here we are. It is early evening at camp and I’ve showered and washed my hair and donned my Cinderella dress and flats (with no socks) and emerged and basically all the girls went, “Ahhhhh” and the teacher asked if she could braid my hair which was pretty much the most fancy my hair had ever been in it’s life.

We got to the hall for dinner and people kept saying, “You look really pretty.” Or “You look beautiful.” And this had never happened to me before in my life so I was mortified by the attention and kept saying, “No, I don’t.” Which was 10 year old speak for, “Shut up and stop talking to me.” After about the tenth time this happened a female teacher pulled me aside and said, “Hey, if people are telling you you look nice or that you’re beautiful it’s because they think you are. No one is forcing them to say that to you. When you say you’re not that means you’re saying that their opinion doesn’t matter. They are wanting to tell you this because they believe it, so just say thank you.” And I felt bad because truthfully me disagreeing with them did just seem to make the conversation awkward. So the next time someone said, “You look lovely”, I replied with, “Thank you. So do you.” And they beamed at me and went away.

And I feel like maybe no one has ever pulled aside many of my friends and ever told them that. One of them will put up a profile picture or something and I might say, “You look amazing.” And more often then not they will say, “Oh, no. I look dreadful, look at the bags under my eyes, I look so tired.” Or something similar and I think, “Dude. Ain’t none of us perfect here but I said that because that is my truth. I don’t willy nilly hand out compliments for fun. I don’t tell you it because I want you to say, “No, you are” and I am not saying it because I’m just being nice. If I say that you are beautiful, it’s because to me, you are. Just say thank you and know that whatever you’re seeing, this is my honesty.”

I grew up watching women deflect compliments as though they were waving away flies.
“You’re beautiful.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve had this outfit for years.”
“I need to lose some weight.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m not.”
I didn’t know how to accept a compliment with grace and just allow it to be their truth. That right at that moment I was beautiful to that person.

So practice it. Thank you. Just two words. Ready?

You’re beautiful….

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The Exhibitionist.

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When I first picked up my camera and read the manual until it was dog-eared seven years ago I began to shoot my kids, flowers, the cats. But I quickly turned to self portraiture. In all honesty if I could have painted I probably would have painted self portraits, but being challenged in that department I choose the camera as my weapon of choice. Self portraiture fulfils a gap in me. I have always written and I am painfully honest. Sometimes, the camera allows me to tell a story without finding the words. If I am frustrated, sad, fierce or sensual I can tell that story by composing the image in my head and then when I execute it there is a magic no science can take away. This camera is an extension of myself, the dance we do together is well practised.

We are constantly told about self love. About acceptance of who we are. “Be yourself.” “You can only truly love another when you have learned to love yourself.” “Love the body you are in.” But when that is practiced in the form of self portraiture it is often viewed as a vanity.

Photos showing flesh are particularly frowned upon. Words then get thrown around like, “slut” “whore” “shameless” “disgusting”. The body doesn’t know words. The body simply is. These are words that you feel when looking at the body. These words are not me or my body. They’re your feelings and opinions. If I had describe my body I would say, “capable” – because it works. “delicate” – because I know it is small and fine. “a fighter” – because I birthed like a frigging goddess. “amazing” – because I grew and nourished six incredible human beings from it. “beautiful” – because it is the only vessel I have in this world. “sensual” – because it is how I express physical love. “imperfect” – and I do not mean that as a fault. I would probably also throw the word “fertile” in there for obvious reasons. And “mine” lastly – because it belongs to no one but me.

If my body offends you, I would suggest you don’t look. If flesh offends you then I would suggest you explore your reasons for this. If you choose to attempt to quantify my worth by only focusing on my flesh then you are greatly underestimating my worth. I am far more than the mere sum of my parts. I am a mother, a writer, a lover, a woman and I won’t be held down by words or threats. I am freedom and flight. And I am not ashamed.

The (fictional) Manual.

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I hate parenting pages. Actually the older I get the more I hate them. I understand they’re a necessary evil because when you first become a mum or dad you essentially have NFI what you’re doing and set out to find a method that works well for you. Except for most people I’ve come across the ‘method’ they choose is essentially what they would have done anyway but finding someone else saying it validates their parenting choice and makes them feel like they’re doing the right thing. Still, I get that.

My parenting journey now has spanned 19 years from when I was first pregnant with my eldest daughter to now, my youngest being 5. Over nearly two decades my style emerged rather organically. Much of my parenting style in the early days was learnt through observation – watching my mother tend to my younger brothers who were 8 and 11 years younger than me. And then slowly over time I kept the parts that worked for me and discarded others and found new things that worked. And obviously each child was different, with new challenges and their own unique personality.

What I didn’t have for much of my parenting journey was a team of other parents on the internet telling me I was shit. For my last three kids I have been active on the Internet but by that stage I was fairly confident in my ability to keep small humans alive so most things just rolled off my back. Actually, I wish I had the same self confidence in other aspects of my life. I find it really easy to just say an internal, “Oh, fuck off,” to unsolicited parenting advice – meanwhile mimicking Sia when I leave the house trying to hide my face from someone that glances at it lest they notice my freckles or smile lines or hormonal chin pimples. But parenting I’m celebrity confident at.

It’s NOT that I figure I have it all worked out. It’s that I am okay with the fact I don’t. That what works today may not work tomorrow. That as long as I try to be fair, respect my children, don’t sweat the small stuff and try every day to do my best that there is very little I can do in any 24 hour period that is going to ruin their life. I’m not going to berate myself for feeding little Jimmy a ham sandwich just because some other mum on the Internet wants to talk about how her kid doesn’t even know pork exists just because it makes her feel better about her own choices.

Parenthood actually isn’t hard. It’s the pressure we put on ourselves to be perfect because we care SO MUCH that is hard. Every time I see a photo with some accompanying text that says, “Do this for your kid or its DOOOOOOMED” I feel simultaneously grateful that I’m not brand new in the parenting pool and sad for every new parent wading in that thinks if they aren’t baby wearing their 18 year old will have insecurity issues.

So this is the only piece of advice I am going to give you.

There is no manual.

There is not a single book or site or program or baby whisperer on the whole planet that can give you a step by step guide to not fucking up your kids. In fact, so long as they’re fed and clothed and you are doing your best, chances are – you aren’t going to fuck them up anyway. If you’re a SAHP – you aren’t going to fuck them up. If you’re a working parent – you aren’t going to fuck them up. No matter whether your kid is bottlefed or breastfed – it isn’t going to fuck them up. If you miss out on awards day because you completely forgot – they will get over it. If you still kiss them goodbye at the school gate at 15 – no harm done.

There is no manual. It’s just you learning how to parent in a way that works FOR YOU. It’s okay to hate some parts. It’s okay to admit you have an age that you don’t really mesh with (for me that’s ages 8-12, big struggle).

Kids are resilient. Parenting is fun. Family is amazing. Feel free to hide parenting pages on Facebook from your newsfeed. People were doing this long before the Internet told them how.

Sink or Swim.

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Earlier this week a well known writer posted an article about how her son doesn’t do chores because his only job is to be a child. To a degree, I get that. My five year old doesn’t have any chores either. But Lana’s son isn’t five – he is fifteen. In three years he will be able to drink, vote and be a legal adult. I have no concerns that this boy will grow to be a responsible and contributing member of society. From reading her life for some time now I can see that he appears from the outside to a a pretty decent kid. And so obviously whatever she is doing works for her.

My general opinion though is very different. Worlds apart – if you will. Because the world is hard and nothing is free and everything comes with a price. My children have been raised to help out a decent amount. In fairness – I have six children and for a good chunk of my parenting journey a work away husband – Lana has one child and what seems to be a hands on husband. I COULD do everything myself but I figure if they’re going to be part of a family then they need to understand that means we help each other out. Oh, and I don’t pay them for chores either. Sorry. No one will pay you to do the dishes when you leave home. At what point did ‘childhood’ come to mean ‘super loads of fun with no responsibility’? Being a child means play, school, lack of responsibility for things like rent, bills, taxes, car maintenance and politics. You can have all those things and still load the dishwasher.

In my opinion there is a vast difference between a little child of five and a budding adult of fifteen. Teen years is where you need to start giving them the lessons they will need to know to make it in the world. I’m not interested in making life easier for them, in the blink of an eye they will be out from under my wing, unsheltered and I need to know they can weather storms on their own. It becomes a transformation from ‘raising a child’ to ‘raising an adult’.

It’s hard. It’s much easier to say yes, to do it yourself, to pay that for them, to say ‘just keep it’ when you’ve agreed your 18 year old will start paying board. It is incredibly difficult as a parent to take the floaties off your child and then watch them learn to swim. The desire to throw them a rope is overwhelming. It’s hard. But as a mother, I set my jaw and offer advice instead of aid.

This year my 8 year old will get his first proper chore. He will be expected to unload the dishwasher every day. To begin with, one of the older children will buddy him and then he will have to do it alone. Chores will be shuffled as the littler kids learn other aspects to keeping house. From fifteen I know my eldest daughter could have ran the house herself. At 18 – preparing to leave home (she has just begun collecting items for her own place now) – I know she will do fine. That more than just the mechanics of a task she understand the cost of meals, the time a job will take, the importance of doing it correctly.

I understand that children frequently do not want to do chores. But as my kids know and often sing to each other, “You can’t always get what you want.”

Fate.

I read an article that was a little bit pretentious in itself but the message still came through. Basically the woman in question was talking about how she had the perfect life because she didn’t have any expectations of what her life would be, therefore in not deliberately seeking it out she allowed it to come to her. It bothered me a little because some of that is sheer luck. And also because many of us cannot take a passive role in our own lives. I struggle constantly between my belief that fate is a true guiding force in our lives and the belief that if we want something we must get up and get it.

What I know is, things usually work out for me. I mean that as in – shit frequently goes tits up – but usually everything works out and often I can look back and think, “Thank god that didn’t work out.” I can point to specific moments in my life that when they happened it felt like they were absolutely MEANT TO HAPPEN and even if I had made a different choice that day, eventually the universe would find a way to right itself.

Sometimes though you can sit and stagnate on things for the longest time and you have to go out and find destiny or fate or whatever it is. Let’s say you want a dog. And all you can think of is how much you need that dog and how much more awesome your life would be with the dog…sitting on the couch watching Netflix while Pintresting photos of dogs isn’t going to get you a dog. You need to go to some shelters, browse rescue pages, find a registered breeder. You might be fated to have a dog but you gotta give fate a hand sometimes.

I don’t know. I’m rambling.

The point is…maybe I’m not exactly where I am meant to be. Maybe I know that. Maybe I wake up every morning and look around and realise I’m in transit. I understand that I’m fated to be elsewhere, do something different. Hell, I can even give you a checklist of exactly what needs to be done to get from point A (here) to point B (that place I’m meant to be). And it’s a lot of work and that can be disconcerting because I know it will be years. It almost causes me visceral panic where I want to bend over with my head between my knees and breathe so I don’t hyperventilate. The hardest thing for me right now is to sit back and watch the scenery because I want to DO something. I don’t often give myself enough credit that this fallow period in my journey is actually important. You cannot recover if you’re running every day. So I rail against it. I resent the journey. All I can do is sit there and feel impatient that this isn’t where I am meant to be. I spend all my time looking backwards at where I was or forwards to where I want to be and can’t see the beauty in where I am RIGHT NOW.

And there HAS to be beauty here. There has to. I will find it. I will trust that fate is working behind the scenes and wherever I am right now – it’s important to where I will end up. There is no rule that says you can’t keep pushing towards something and still enjoy where you are. They’re not mutually exclusive.

With this in mind I unclasped my camera bag and pulled out my camera which fit into my hand like it was a part of me. I got my keys and I left the house. I didn’t know where I was going and the time of day was wrong for good photos but I just drove, hoping something would catch my eye. Just one thing, I told myself. Just take one photo that you don’t hate. It doesn’t matter if it’s shit. Or that the light is bad or that you don’t have a plan. Just find something you think is beautiful here and shoot it.

Breathe in the now. Trust that the universe is unfolding how it should. How many days will you waste looking ahead instead of what is right beside you?

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