Dwelling in Loss & Light
exploring kinship and the power of connection
Dear Friend,
My daughter went back to college this morning.
Before she left, I asked if we could hold hands. Comfortable with my odd and unexpected photographic requests, she was all in.
Even though she is now somewhere on the New York Thruway on her way to Pennsylvania, I can still feel the warmth of her touch.
That is the power of the energy between us.
These transitional moments when our children leave for their next adventure are painful every time. I can predict that pit in my stomach and the tears as they drive off.
The power of the connection between me and C & S seems self-evident. They were once literally a part of me, they came from me, and for years they depended on me for everything. Now, though, they are independent and I must say good-bye again and again.
There is grief, loss and longing for sure, but there is also this glorious opportunity for each of us to be ourselves on our own terms.
The question I ask, then, is am I able to dwell fully in the poignancy of this moment, or will I distract myself by keeping busy and ignoring the deep love that is the cause for the present sadness?
This is the question I consider every time my children leave.
Years ago, when they first left for camp at the end of June, I’d busy myself in the garden, plan adventures for D and me, and basically fill the time with activity until their return.
Over time, though, I slowed down more and more, savoring the quiet and letting myself renew, knowing that in four short weeks they’d be home. But now it will be months until both C & S are here again, so I have to manage this puzzling moment the only way I know how.
With camera for company, we follow light, shape and form.
We inhabit the quiet, usually standing at the kitchen window and just looking out.
Then we wander around the house and re-connect with the now empty spaces.
But they’re not really empty, because the light dances on forms creating magical micro-dramas.
The Molecules memory game we’ve played every Boxing Day evening for years greets me in the living room.
The narcissus that smell like my grandmother’s house greet me in the dining room.
And then the play of light in the Sunroom draws me outside. How can I resist?
Today, the sun was out and revealed this edgy place between music sheets in the garden library, a weathered stump and a hydrangea flower that blew across the yard.
Along the way, the light made this lone milkweed pod come to life.
And there it is, that powerful energy that flows between bodies, not just between two humans, but also between any two bodies of matter - - In this case, the milkweed pods and the snow as well as the life force that once thrived between each of these pods and the seeds they contained.
A few days ago we had a huge storm. When I took the dogs out, the milkweed pods looked very different.
Same shapes. Same hard shells and seeds. But with the snow falling around it and covering it, this Milkweed felts connected to something much larger than itself, as if the individual flakes wanted this one body to be connected to them and everything else in the garden they touched.
A few days before that snow storm we had a fast and furious snow squall that within an hour completely changed the character of the compost pile.
The previously distinct grapefruit and balsam needles were suddenly covered, inverting the dynamics between light and dark, positive and negative space. I love this interplay between materials, light, shape and form.
And I love how immersing myself in this essay fills me with curiosity and joy, reducing some of the sadness I was feeling earlier. How cool is that?
These are the kinds of things I am excited to explore this coming year with the Kinship Photography Collective, whose theme this year is Between Bodies. As a group, we will consider questions like:
What is a body?
What is between our bodies and the places we inhabit?
What’s between the sky, the land and the water?
What is between absence and presence?
What is between who we are now and who we are going to become?1
Perhaps it was because I had this theme on my mind that these two images presented themselves. Two benches, one with swirls and patterns, the other with straight lines.
Is the wood between the air or is the air between the wood? What does it feel like in that place where the snow meets the metal?
And how might this connection be similar to or different from when my daughter and I held hands?
Amazing how this morning’s sadness feels so much less intense.
In the time it’s taken me to write this post, S has made it to Interstate 78 somewhere in Pennsylvania. While hundreds of miles away, I still feel her warmth and remember her touch.
I wonder what nurturing my photography practice this year will reveal about what is between who my daughter and I are now and who we are going to become?
Thank you, dear reader, for being here and for sharing your time and this space with me.
With cheers and gratitude for you being you,
Lyn
Also, please let me know what you’re thinking by using the comment button above rather than hitting reply. If you choose the latter, I’ll never see any of your delightful words.
…And if you know anyone who might enjoy these musings or exploring my photography, please do click the button below and see what they think!
The Kinship Photography Collective is a global community of practice that invites photographers (of all levels) to deepen their empathy, intimacy, and connections with the natural world and each other. It was launched in 2022.
If you are interested in learning more about the collective, feel free to sign up for one of the Wednesday night online gatherings. They are open to all. If you want to join a Practice Group or participate in the Kinship “Circle,” you’ll need to become a member. The suggested membership is $5/month, but there are scholarships available if you ask!