area 25 artistry: Footprints in the Snow

Those are my footprints, but not mine alone.

Now, you may have only noticed one set, and think I am heading towards a spiritual post, but I am not.

This is a post about grief.

This is a post about something left behind.

You see, on the day these images were taken, it snowed almost ten inches. Now, that's a little out of the ordinary for Middle Tennessee, and very out-of-the-ordinary for a Mississippi girl.

Having a photographer's heart, I was intent on getting outside and trudging through the snow for photographs. I was filled with excitement and wonder. It was like an unexpected Christmas had fallen from the sky while we slept.

With this excitement, there was only one problem. I didn't have snow gear. I didn't have mittens, or a scarf, or a toboggan, or a sled, and I certainly didn't have any snow boots.

I contemplated with creativity how I would find my way through 10 inches of snow, all they way down to the old barn on our road. It's not a short walk. You see, our house cannot be seen from the road, and not only do we have a long and winding driveway, it's another quarter of a mile to the barn once you get to the road. I knew my feet would be soaked. I thought of tying grocery bags around my socks and another layer of bags around my shoes, but that wouldn't keep the snow off of my pants or off my ankles.

I proceeded to dig with determination through my shoe bin. Nothing. I was almost ready to accept defeat and shoot from inside, through the windows.

And then I saw them.

My Daddy's work boots.

You see, his boots are the only thing I have of his. He passed away almost five years ago, and without a will, the only thing I inherited was his dirty, greasy work boots; boots that were destined to be thrown out.

-The boots that carried him many miles and through many hours of hard work.

-The boots that he wore the day before he died at the age of 59, without warning.

And until this very moment, I had only kept the boots on display- on top of an armoire, or on the hearth by the fireplace, cherishing them as the singular thing I could touch that my daddy had touched. Yet, on this day, I looked at the boots and considered wearing them in the snow.

With that thought, came a sense of guilt, of conflict.

How could I even consider this? They are all I have that belonged to him. I was worried that something would happen to them, I was afraid of getting them wet, I was terrified that they might get ruined....after all, they are my most prized possession; the only thing I can touch that my Daddy once touched, too.

In that moment of conflict, I found myself gifted with the thought of my Daddy's wishes- that he would want me to wear the boots. That he would want me to trudge in the snow, to brave the cold, to follow my hearts desire. I knew my Daddy wouldn't want me to experience this rare occasion though the windows, but to experience it fully, with the cold air on my nose, and the falling snowflakes on my eyelashes, and my camera clasped in my hands with my heart and my imagination fully engaged.

And I knew that by wearing his boots, I would be taking him with me.

So I picked up the boots, put on several pairs of socks, and I headed out into the snow. And in that moment, I could feel his approval, and his love and his joy in seeing me step outside.

I could almost hear him laughing as I trudged clumsily with his big boots on my small feet.

And I felt like a little girl. A little girl whose daddy was proudly encouraging her to experience life on the outside, and not through the windows.

(Below are a few images from that day and the next, when I proudly wore my Daddy's boots again.)