I attended a lovely Independence Day gathering earlier this week five houses down the street. While all of the guests were from our neighborhood, there were several people there I've not had a conversation with lately. It was a lovely to catch up.

​More than one person asked me how I'm faring. I expected that. It wasn't a case of nosiness. There was no judgement intended. I don't think so, anyway. I answered, talking about a weekend away in early June, plans to attend a family baby shower later this month. And, I learned about vacations, adventures with grandchildren, book recommendations. Plus, the food was outstanding! I'm so glad I went.

​Since then, the oft-repeated question has come back to mind, though. How am I faring?

​I'm OK. This bereavement isn't for the faint of heart, that's for certain. I'm realizing that the sadness I am feeling is always going to be with me. Life with Tal was finer than either of us realized, and I miss the way things used to be.

​In some ways the sadness is stronger than it was right after Tal's death. What has changed is the acute nature of the pain. It no longer has that exquisite, piercing, breath-taking quality it did early on. Now, it's a steady presence, heavier at times than others.

​I am also realizing that I have choices -- of all sorts. What, and when, to eat, whether to keep the house, if to push for gainful employment, where I might like to travel, how to observe the next round of holidays. It makes my head spin.

Other choices are more subtle. And, likely more important. I can pick up the camera. I can get up early -- write, walk, weed. I can schedule outings. I can be the initiator of conversations with friends rather than waiting to be called.

I can choose whether to let the sadness dictate how I feel and what I do. In fact, that might be my most important conclusion so far. With a deliberate and deep breath I can choose to lay it aside, if for only an hour or just a few minutes, whatever I can manage. The sadness doesn't have to be all there is.

​So, now what?

Who am I going to be? How am I going to act? What am I doing to do?

I get to choose.

The calendar I use -- yes, a paper calendar still -- numbers the days. In the upper right hand corner of each block I see both the number of the current day as well as the number of days left in the year.

Over the weekend those two numbers came close to matching each other. Saturday was #182 with 183 days to go; yesterday was #183 with 182 to go. Too bad 2017 has an odd number of days ... Somewhere, though, between Saturday and Sunday there must have been a moment of absolute in-between, where the year hung in a split second of balance.

​Why does that interest me so? A half empty vs half full thing, maybe? Thinking back, I have always -- like when on a trip -- reassured myself that there was still time left, an "it's not over yet" outlook. I do enjoy the thought of closer to the beginning than to the end.

On the other hand, there are activities that inspire in me a bit of gladness that the conclusion is nearer than the beginning. I'm thinking house cleaning. On those occasions I sometimes hear in my head the line Tal used to offer: "Well, it's not as long (or as far) as it has been," a favorite on an overly optomistic day's driving.

​Today is the first Monday in the second half of the year. There's plenty of year left. What I think I realize, as I consider the passage of time and our calendar milestone, is that more important than where we are on the beginning-to-end continuum is my attitude, my outlook. There's a lot more in the balance than the number of days so far and the number left.

​We may have reached the peak and are beginning the descent. There's nothing to do about that. What's happened so far has lessons to teach. And, it might be all downhill from here. But, what lies before is nevertheless a beginning. What could be better than that?

A new morning, a new week, a new month.  It seems just the right day to resume writing a blog post a couple times a week.  Then, there's the long walk Belle and I used to make each morning, abandoned for some reason weeks ago.  As the skies brightened today, though, we were out the door.   

The trouble is with that -- with the morning walk -- is this:  Recreational walkers like Miss Belle and me have been banned from the golf course.  Our possible routes are paved  and mostly dead ends.  And worse, the views make camera work a challenge.  It's hard to avoid open garage doors, parked cars and power lines.

Continuing to pout, it seemed to me, would do nothing but put an end to the wonder of the new day, the new week, the new month.  Two months of lamenting the ban is entirely sufficient.  Without the unobstructed views of the tended course, what could I find to photograph -- besides, of course, leaves (see today's flickr image) and flowers, edges and curves, little things all? 

The choice was mine:  Pout or pay attention ...

There was --  is -- plenty to see.  Absolutely.  We came up a long slope and looked right.  The ground fog warmly illuminated by the sun, the pine and myrtle back lit, the sun peeking through the greenery.  I couldn't have asked for a prettier or inviting scene.  Belle and I stayed in that spot until the magic ended. 

And, I could have missed it -- by not going for the walk, by believing my worst, awful, negative self, by locking in on my expectations.  It sounds trite, but our expectations can limit us terribly.  While we keep our eyes focused on them, we miss the real and wonderful and invigorating view.  How I don't want to do that. 

The sky's the limit.  Happy September!

I had the best time.

Before Belle and I set out on our morning walk I checked email for details about today's prompt in Susannah Conway's 2014 August Break community project.  Oh, my ...  "today is."  Previous days certainly have been easier was my first thought.

I gathered up our stuff: plastic bag, leash, camera.  Today is.  Today is.  What?

Well, first of all I've been in something of a fog the last few weeks.  Head down.  Doing what I had to do.  Not not OK.  But, not with it either.  I've really tired to pin down reasons, to understand, to move on -- beyond whatever.  But, I've been a little stuck.

Today?  An "aha" before we reached the end of the -- very short -- driveway.  I don't like going for walks anymore.  I don't like going for walks anymore.  We moved here a year ago and walking the golf course before it opens and after it closes has been a lovely priority, an anchor for my days.  Yes, I did know that the owner of the course doesn't like recreational walkers.  And, yes, I had read the prohibition against it in the "Declarations of Rights, Restrictions, Affirmative Obligations, and Conditions Which Constitute Covenants Running with Certain Lands of Golden Hills, Inc."  (Couldn't resist charming you with that title.)

But, there's always a but ...  Lots of people quietly walk the course anyway.  Like Belle and Janet.

In early July all homeowners received a friendly reminder from the course owner which outlined all the "thou shalt nots" involved in living here.  Not wanting somehow, somewhere, someway to be made an example of I took the walking rule to heart.  Belle and I now traverse the narrow streets, which we have to share with cars and their drivers.

It was this morning that it hit me just how much I miss it.  The water; the birds, animals, insects; moving water in Twelve Mile Creek; early morning sunlight glancing across clipped greens; the closeness to the woods; the leading lines of the cart paths; the quite places simply to stand and look. 

By no means am I blaming my 2014 summer fog on the owner of Golden Hills.  Fogs are just part of life, part of the deal.  I am, however, realizing that my current state might have been less extreme had I not been relegated to the pavement.  Had I had the comfort of more nature, of less busy surroundings.  

This post's title mentions turning a corner.  Its first sentence declared I had a good time.  I think I have.  I did.  With the photo prompt for the day as my guide I looked for and made photographs of the sadness, or the powerlessness I feel, photographs of how much I don't like being put off the course, photographs of the things that tempt me to grind my teeth or to whine or to act out.  Miraculously I do feel better. 

I have been working toward resuming blog writing for some time. As the moment approached to do the deed, I found myself face to face with the "how to start" dilemma -- which included what to call this new space, trying to be clear about why I want to write, and a host of other niggly things.

This isn't my first blog. I wrote VicarRidge during the last years I worked full time. Meanderings was intended to be a celebration of more footloose days after I stopped working.*  Neither of those efforts ended deliberately; I consider neither a failure. They simply ran down as I ran out of things to say and ran out of energy. That Write Light will be any different remains to be seen.

So, a blog about photography, which for me is a practice of contemplating light. A blog about observing life, which for me is a practice primarily of monitoring my own attitude. You will read lots more about that -- the attitude, I promise. In fact, despite the title I gave this post, I'm not really asking permission to begin again and I'm not inwardly snarling at myself for having arrived at a third beginning. Perhaps "three strikes and you're out" is no more accurate than "third try's the charm." 

I chose the photograph deliberately. It was made two years and seven days ago in Ward, South Carolina, on what used to be a regular driving route.  Almost without fail, I'd see those tracks and think I should stop. On that day I did.  The gleaming of the late afternoon sun on those rails was too much of a draw for me to tell myself yet again that I'd stop another time.

Now, I see all sorts of things wrong with the image.  The road crosses too near the horizontal center, bisecting the scene too evenly.  There's too much out-of-focus track in the foreground.  The highlights, especially along the rails, are clipped.  In other words, I would compose it differently now and I'd probably develop it differently, too.  After all, I know more about photography and the processing software in 2014 than I did two years ago.  And, I am a different person. These tracks though Ward help me remember and smile at that. 

Maybe one day soon I'll time a trip to stop in Ward close to sunset and photograph those tracks again.  But in the meantime, as I start over, I didn't make a new image and I didn't edit the old one. Letting it be seems right.

My big question?  Yes, I'd approach a new photograph of this scene differently now.  Will I approach writing a blog differently, as well?  We'll see, so stay tuned.




* Both previous blogs are available under the Blogs tag.