Photo Essay

I gave my students the assignment to choose a family photo in which they could write a reflective, descriptive essay. I told them that I would do the assignment as well. This is my attempt:

"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times" so says Dickens about the French Revolution. It also describes high school, at least for my daughter anyway. One moment she's exuberant and laughing with her friends; the next she's slouching through the door trying to hold back tears. I fear she feels the wounds of her own revolution, trying to be herself, modifying her mannerisms, pleading for acceptance. She'll argue about that last one. "Bah. Who needs to be accepted by Morons?" But even the peasants in France sang the song- notice me, nourish me, let me live my life.

I remember being 16. Like my daughter, I was tall. Taller than every girl and towering over most boys. Never in my life do I remember feeling small. In 5th grade when we learned about the Amazon and the mysterious warrior-like women who ruled there, I couldn't help shrinking in my seat fearing that someone would blurt out "Hey, kinda like Amy!" Or in 7th grade when the basketball coach issued shoes and demanded my shoe size. "10," I whispered, but he didn't hear me, and I had to answer loud enough so everyone could snicker. I remember hating the stick figure girls who dared to suggest that they were "getting fat." Oh, please. Looking back three decades, I can almost laugh. Life has bent and pushed and pulled and stretched, but I'm still the same size now as I was then. Finally, comfortable in my skin.

There's a photo of my daughter and me that I keep posted on the refrigerator. She took it with my camera after playing with the settings- shades of grey. I'm shocked at how much our eyes are similar. Hers are blue and mine are green. Both look like my mother's. Her hair is the softest shade of sun-bleached wheat. Women would die for hair like this; boys undoubtedly long to touch it. I notice her extra three inches and feel small next to her. How is that possible?

I remember the day she took this picture. I was rushing out the door, purse strapped on, hurrying to jog from one busy mom moment to the next. "Wait, I want to try this out," stopped me long enough to snap the shot. "Come with me," I invited, and we spent the day doing trivial things and discussing daring climaxes. How should I make Ben die? How do I get Wyatte and Braxton to make up? What if I give her mom a chronic illness?

She writes because it makes her feel. Words burn and she has to ease the pain. Pages and pages in notebook after notebook. With her pen she creates characters in love and war. She captures on paper the personalities that plague her. I tease that she'll have to "change the names to protect the innocent." We laugh and plot and dream.

I used to be a writer too. I wrote volumes in diaries and letters to friends back in the day when stationary came in thick or thin and a rainbow of colors. I remember sealing letters and the sweet taste of glue. I remember the anticipation of waiting for the postman to deliver a response. The joy of finding a letter on my dresser when I returned home from school. One boy who grasped my heart like Braxton has grasped my daughter's. Every once in a while I'll open aging pages and read of my own teenage revolution. The best times equaled boys and gossip; the worst times equaled gossip and boys. Times have changed but the war has not.

Somehow, I muddled through and my girl will too. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then she's got it made on the battlefront. And maybe someday she'll see a picture of herself with her daughter, and she'll smile and feel the love of a mom who's been there.

Okay so I'm not so good at this. . .

Blogging. Mind blogging for sure. Great idea to post thoughts, feelings, stories. It's just not happening. I still like to sit with the worn leather of a favorite journal and my flowing pen. Most often I record my life while sitting in church on Sundays. I like to listen to the hymns and allow my mind to wander to the highlights of my week. I remember little things like a hug from a son who begins to tower over me and never fails to say "I love you" when he gets out of the car. I think of my children serving God and spreading the gospel in far away places. I ponder the economy and the state of my bank account. Most importantly, I express my thoughts on paper in a way that's cathartic. The cramp in my hand that aches when I press my stress through the ball point. The doodles that spring up when my mind feels weightless and free (which by the way happens a little more often now that I've learned to apply the old adage "Let go. Let God.") I may or may not get the hang of this blogging thing. It doesn't matter really. I've already got a handle on exploring my inner feelings with a couple of friends flat and thin.