You Were Here

solstice

On the darkest day of the year, our house shined bright with candles, christmas lights, and new traditions. We set the table with fancy dishes, cooked a tasty meal together, and toasted the coming of light with wine (our teatotaller dog enjoyed a bowl of milk instead). We'll officially celebrate Christmas in the coming days with our families, but last night, we celebrated together, just the three of us, and it was just so perfect.

Wishing you wonderfully light days ahead.

in bar harbor, in pictures

I preface this post by saying that all the photographs in the world couldn't convey just how wonderful Bar Harbor was. Neither photos nor words can do justice to how perfect the weather was; how gracious our hosts were; how wonderful the food was; or how peacefully pretty the entire town was.

I take my camera everywhere and photograph life endlessly knowing just how precious small reminders of a journey can be once that part of a life is long gone. All too often, time and memory pass quickly over parts of our life so worth remembering, and tokens of these moments become invaluable in stirring up stronger, more vivid memories.

In looking at a photograph of a loved one long gone, I find my eye catching sight of a hand-sewn shirt and suddenly I am five years old, sitting on the floor, picking favourites out of a jar of buttons I have dumped on the floor - the sewing machine whirling in time to my mother's slippered foot going up and down on the pedal on the floor beside me. To travel back like that through a simple glimpse at a photograph is a remarkable gift - one that keeps me clicking.

Someday, I hope that one of the many (four hundred plus!) pictures I took of our weekend in Maine will bring me right back to that weekend and all of the love and promise that came with it.

      

you were here

Today, as I have done on this day for the past 12 years, I celebrate her life. Because, even though she can't be here to celebrate it herself, I am so grateful that she was here. 

Without her, there'd be no me (biologically speaking), and without her, I wouldn't be the person I am (behaviourally speaking). I wouldn't have my opinionated mind, I wouldn't know how to shuffle a deck of cards with style, I wouldn't know the true healing powers of laughter, I wouldn't be a knitter with an out of control yarn stash (I still have some of her yarn), I wouldn't love dogs like I do. 

My childhood is as marked by her presence as my adulthood is by her absence. And that's how I keep her here in the present, by remembering all that she was here for. My wedding someday will be marked by knowing how much she would adore the man I've chosen. My role as a wife will be marked by lessons I learned from watching her marriage through my child's eye. And my life as a mom will be inherently influenced by my own childhood, with her as my wonderful mom. 

She would be here if she could. And that's what matters. 

Happy birthday, Mom.