Born to

Have you heard of this?  “Flow”?  I didn’t know it had a name until I saw this documentary.  Flow is when you become so engrossed in process, whatever it may be, you loose your sense of self, becoming one with what you are doing.  Your world stops.  If you are an artist, painter, baker, runner, writer, musician, woodworker, gardener, or maker-of any sort, I bet you’ve felt this many times.

This past weekend, we took in the music of Waterdeep, a husband/wife music duo, in an old ark-like-barn, and I couldn’t get over their flow – deep and total loss.  Watching them felt true.  In many ways so true, it seemed the only real response was to cry.  Their flow blew me away.

The weekend was filled with many other things get lost in too, and these photos catch a few favorites.  But five days out, I keep coming back to Waterdeep’s melodies, pouring like rain, voices gleaning off the darkness.  And that blissful ability to loose ourselves in flow -- or watch someone else get lost in it -- feeling the glory of time melt to nothingness.

Film

Film.

Reminds me what it was like to make an image without listening.  Without blogs or Etsy or thousands of photography websites at my fingertips with eternal piles of imagery -- sun kissed children, lilac-ed brides. Paled skin.  Eyes all-a-perfectly shining.  A bevy of crisp, noiseless, digital sheen.  So many places to fall short.

I found these old photos and realized 10 years ago the only thing I listened to was my eye behind the camera.  And I didn’t even know I was listening, I just shot.  The film gave the magic of delay -- no looking or judging right away.   And when the film was developed, that was it.  No revising, never deleting.  It was what it was.  You would then share the photos in hand with family or friends, who stuck them in frames or pinned them to bulletin boards or the fridge.  So tactile.  Edges curled, they almost smelled like a book.  Glossy, light swelled, paper lined, words like “Kodak” or “Endurance” swimming in light blue script, corner to corner across the back.  These photos make me miss the way I could hold the image.  Tuck it into a pocket or bag.  Then find it months later like an old tissue or receipt.  Immediately brought back to the moment that it captured.

I just bought a new digital camera.  But I still miss film.