We each have a Story.
And within that, we have many threads of stories that weave themes or
subplots or offer detailed content to that larger Story that is our life. We
express it in words, tears, raucous laughter or considered silence. Some of us
squelch our stories, or parts of them, in accordance with what we perceive as
norms or acceptability. Others exaggerate stories to make them more
interesting, palatable, valuable.
I have spent the past few weeks finding an hour here and there to collect
all of my digital photos into one archive. It is a mess. Tens of thousands of
photos await categorization. Many albums require renaming, and then
alphabetizing. Perhaps thousands will be “delete-ables” – duplicates or duds.
* * *
Some photos were just eager attempts to capture as many nuances as
possible of a grand moment:
…whales breaching or tail lobbing or spy hopping or eating a smaller
whale
trees, flowers, icebergs, glaciers, beaches rocky.sandy.volcanic, leaves,
mountains, prairies, valleys
koalas gazing or dozing or head turned just slightly so and that album
with kangaroos
brilliant fall leaves blowing in the wind, every angle imaginable at
close range or afar
the Big Five while on safari in South Africa’s Krueger National Park
seals, otters, seabirds and backyard birds, tigers, pandas, penguins and
endangered cranes, lions with elephants and giraffes roaming with zebras
my homes, others’ houses, some nests, my dog, road trips, our cat
sunsets, green flashes, rainbow.snow.sun.cloud.drizzle, moonrises and
eclipses, seasons changing or settled, road kill, a great horned owl
family visits, old friends, a birthday’s sunrise, artwork, handmade
greetings cards
an embarrassing.to.me.now image of long-haired me in a gaudy pink
sweatshirt sitting on a backhoe with the sewer pipes exposed making a profane
gesture with my hand while wearing a sneering smile on my face reminiscent of
my unhealthy past, my book covers, professional photos, me trying to look brave
to show a friend I’m okay during a reallyreallyreallyhard life transition,
photos of my childhood artwork or digital photos of pre-digital camera photos
huts, towns, cultural ceremonies, historic markers or relics, remote
islands, cities
oceans, lakes, streams, waterfalls, ponds, rivers, famous straits and
channels, and that infamous inky black passage
the desert that challenged, fed, held me while I fasted alone on the land
for days and nights and days and nights
burned places, ancient lands, reclaimed areas, preserves, a jail or two,
murals, monasteries.cathedrals.spiritualrocks, the.church.that.locked.me.in.while.I.meditated…
* * *
I literally have enough photos to post one per day on my blog for the
next 68.92 years.
Yes, I probably need to cull. I’m so very much NOT the hoarder; I have
preferred to gift to others or sell or recycle or throw away my belongings and
memorabilia every few years when I move.
And as I look at my photo stash on the screen, I find myself staring into
each image. I travel deeper into the image in reverie. I recall the memories. I
am reminded of the fibers of my life…all the little stories that make up the
tapestry of my Story.
So I shut down the photo program for now, having digested
all that I can.
The shape of my Story, of your Story, is so much more than the sum of a
multitude of rectangular two-dimensional images. Where do you read the knots and ripples and seamless flow of your own Life Story?
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2014 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
