Light

October 18, 2020

I don’t take pictures. I don’t take pictures of myself, of my friends, of anything, really. I’ll take a screenshot of a funny meme and send it to a friend, or I’ll snap a picture of something I want to buy so I’ll remember where it was if I still want it after my next paycheck. But I don’t really take pictures. It’s divine intervention that I took any of my medical journey so I have some sort of reference material for that time. When I’m having an experience I want to remember, I grab a nearby sheet of paper and a pen or pull out the notes app on my phone and write about what’s going on and the exact way I’m feeling at that moment. I capture it with words. When I want to revisit that moment, later on, I open up my journal or that collection of random pieces of paper, or napkins, or my notes app, and it’s like I’ve stepped back into that time again.

Meaning, I have no pictures of myself.

Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be a problem. What need do I have for pictures of myself? I’m not on a dating app right now, and I’ve got one picture I use on every social media platform, so that’s enough. But I’m pulling together my writings from the past few years and putting them on a website; an anthology I’ve affectionately titled, This Might Be How You Feel.

I create things. Most of the things I create don’t seem inherently creative, so most people probably wouldn't see me that way - but I do - I create. An intricate process, a nuanced system, an organization, a form, a program. I build things, and I love the process of building and creating. So taking the pieces I wrote to heal from the trauma and experience tied to my illnesses and putting them into a website that’s accessible and innovative is an expression of creativity for me. It’s a hobby, and a project I enjoy. It’s also a monument, a testament to my God of all he’s brought me through, all we’ve walked together. It’s a reminder for me, of who I was and where I was and who I am now, where I am now, who I’m becoming, where I’m going, all because of God. It’s a special and unique opportunity I have to pour over these writings, my CaringBridge posts, my journals, and see that time again but removed from the immediate pain of those moments, from a place healthy enough emotionally to see where I was then and understand how pieces fit together and what God was doing. I can see now what I couldn’t see then. It’s embarrassing and cringe-worthy at times but also inspires gratitude and praise and hope. It’s healing in and of itself.

While I’m doing this, I’m also building the mechanics of the website and since this project is quite personal, I figure I should probably put my name to it. This means I need, somewhere on the site, an “about” page. And “about” pages usually have pictures.

But like I said, I don’t take pictures.

Not only do I not take pictures, but I also detest having my picture taken. I just never feel like I know how to stand or smile or look or what to do and so I feel awkward and out of place and uncomfortable. Do I hate it? Yes. Do I take pictures anyway? No.

Now normally, I could just recycle one of the six pictures I have from the last few years that I’ve been forced to take, for one reason or another. But over the last eight months I’ve been growing out the blunt, straight-across bangs that I had since before my brain surgery and I let my balayage hair dye grow out. I keep going to meetings with people who have looked up my picture on our website and don’t recognize me because “I was looking for someone with bangs and blond hair.” I even thought about going back on dating apps but didn’t have any pictures that looked even remotely close to what I look like now and figured that would probably be considered false advertising.

Since we’ve all been in a global pandemic for seven months, I haven’t even had any opportunities to do something picture-worthy. As great as I look in my pajamas sitting on my front porch, I didn’t think that would be quite appropriate. So I put it on God’s to-do list and moved on to another part of the project.

Slowly, I started making friends in Montgomery. Moving cross-country at the start of a pandemic does absolutely nothing for your social life, but as people started to have outdoor gatherings, I was invited by a friend I had in the area before I moved to DC. I kept hearing about this woman I just had to meet who was in her early thirties, loves God, has a great heart, and is a photographer. I swear every person I met said, “Have you met Brooke yet? You have to meet Brooke.” It took a while, but our mutual friend invited us both for margaritas on Labor Day, and then we were both invited to a couple of outdoor events. I totally got why everyone kept saying I had to meet Brooke and was glad I finally did.  

We connected on Instagram so she could share one of her friend’s skincare pages with me and I started following her. I was astounded at how talented she is with a camera, how gifted. An idea started niggling in my head, that maybe I could ask her to take a picture of me, for my website.

So I asked her to lunch and over fast-casual Mediterranean food shared my idea. I asked if she’d be willing to take a picture of me, and she agreed. She said the studio she works at has great lighting and maybe I could come by one morning before work for a few quick shots. I gratefully agreed.

The morning of the shoot I got nervous. When I mentioned it to her, she said all I had to do was look cute and show up. Alright. Well, I can show up. I pulled on a rust-colored shirt in cut that looked good on me, jeans, and my go-to pair of white Keds. I stopped by the nearby cafe for a cup of hot chocolate because when I’m nervous I arrive places obscenely early.

When it gets to a point where I’m only going to be five minutes early instead of thirty-five minutes early, I leave the cafe and head over to the studio. Walking in, she greets me with a smile and asks me to give her just a minute. Soon enough she’s walking me into the studio and rearranging lights to make space by the window.

I put down my purse, grab the computer, notebook, and pen I use to write, and looked at her expectedly, yet somewhat hesitantly.

“Alright! Do you like this couch or that one?” I nod to the first couch and she pushes it across the room with ease. “Okay,” she says confidently, “Let’s have you come sit on the couch over here, I pictured you kind of curled up with your laptop and, yeah, like that, tilt your notebook the other way, exactly. Okay, smile at me!”

I’m still nervous. I’m smiling the way she tells me, looking where she points, and am still a little on edge. I start to relax as she gives me instructions and can tell she’s very good at what she does, and I’m glad I asked her to be part of this with me, if only because of how kind she is.

Every time I tell her she’s taking amazing photos, she comments that it’s the model, and as I said, she’s very kind. Brooke is as gorgeous as she is kind, and while that’s not central to this moment, it still needs to be said.

We do a few different poses and with every one, she shows me the first few shots so I can see what the setup looks like. I can feel my emotions building each time she lets me look at them, but I can’t figure out why. I can feel that I’m retreating back into myself and I don’t want her to think my quiet, pensive demeanor is unhappiness with the photos she’s taking, when in actuality, I’m incredibly grateful, so I’m verbally reassuring and affirming that I love the photos. And I do, so why do I feel like I’m sinking into myself?

We’re finished in less than twenty minutes and I’m packing my laptop into my bag, giving Brooke a thank-you hug, and pulling on my mask to leave. I get into my car, grab my still warm hot chocolate, and finally allow the feelings free roam within me. As they permeate my heart and mind, I try to label them, and I can’t. It’s foreign.

I feel….

Fragile.

I feel fine. Not fine like okay, but fine like delicate.

Valuable.

Looking at the photos she’s showing me, I almost don’t recognize myself. It’s me, but it’s like I’m seeing my whole self for the first time - past, present, and future.

Looking at these photos, I see beauty.

I see light and life.

The culmination of all of these components I’ve been pouring over as I build this website, the writings, the journals, the blog posts - I see healing. I see a future. How much of it is on this side of heaven or the next, I don’t know, but I know that I can live, even when I’m told I’m dying.  

Looking at that small screen, I feel the tears threatening and think on the pain, fear, suffering, perseverance, endurance, and strength I see fully captured in the person looking back at me. At this moment, I can’t help but think maybe God answered a prayer I prayed not too long after my surgery, to see myself as he sees me. A prayer answered through the lens of my friend’s camera.

I really like what I see.

To hear this entry read aloud, click here.
To watch this entry in American Sign Language, click here. (Coming Soon)