In the Spring

In the Spring, my heart did bloom

But Summer came, and scorching June.

And So my heart did wither, dry

Till all but buried deep did die.

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.)

- written in loving memory of my Daddy, Dannie C. Johnson

to awaken the dreamer

I used to be a dreamer.  I used to create beautiful things.

But then there was a storm.

Sometimes we need a quiet reprieve.  We need to retreat and recollect ourselves after the rain.

When a storm not only blindsides you, but hovers like a monsoon of biblical proportions, it can wreak havoc on your soul.  Now, there are those of us that put on a smile and weather the storm with a strength and grace that inspires those around us, and there are those of us that crumble to a pile of broken dreams, succumb to darkened thoughts, and give way to faded hope and a shattered spirit; those whose souls writhe in pain, and for which there seems to be no light beyond the darkness.

I am of the latter.

And I fell apart.

I became scarred beyond recognition.

My spirit died.

But I am not done yet.

I will become something more than before, not in spite of my scars, but because of my scars.  I will pull myself out of bed each day and put myself first again, because if I don't, I will be useless to anyone else.  I will pray, I will meditate, I will breathe fresh air, I will turn up the music and dance, and most of all, I will create.

Not too long ago, I heard on the news of a medical procedure- an implant that goes into the brain, being used to treat depression in people who weren't responding to medication.  Out of marvel and curiosity I decided to google it, and I discovered research on the specific area of the brain in which this pace-maker-like device is planted, known as Area 25.

Area 25 is the portion of the brain believed to control emotions.  As I read this, something stirred within me.  I wondered what I could do to stimulate my area 25 (since brain surgery was obviously out of the question).  At that point in my darkness, music was the only thing that helped me to escape.  Anxiety had become crippling to me, and I had isolated myself beyond belief.  The only relief I had found, was to put in my earbuds and listen to my favorite music.  I hadn't played piano or picked up my camera in almost a year, and my soul was aching to create again.  I knew that creativity was "that thing" for me- the way to speak both from and to my Area 25.  It's my portal of sorts- a way to vent my sadness, turn it into something tangible, something that can be seen or heard.  It's a way to validate my emotions, to let them go out into the world and to free them from my body.  I didn't know if what I was capable of creating in that state would be something dark, or beautiful, or both, and it didn't matter to me.

I just knew that the only way I would ever pull myself out of the abyss was to create again.

I pulled my keyboards out of the attic and began playing while the kids were at school.  I began taking long rides on roads unexplored.  I began doing yoga outdoors, where I could feel the breeze and hear the birds.  I started listening to guided meditations.  I learned to practice Reiki.  I began to feel myself, still somewhere deep inside, wanting to emerge.

I had believed that girl was gone.

I had all but buried her.

But I was wrong.

She still exists.

Eventually, my hands found themselves holding a camera again.  I began taking my camera on long walks through the woods, driving back roads, taking photographs of things that made me feel something, anything.

And there it was.

My passion had found me in that darkness.  It warmed me like the light of the sun.

And it was different than before.

I am different than before.

I am the dreamer who died, and was brought back to life.

Love, 

Me