Representations

There are two main reasons I like photography. 1. I love photography and enjoy creating my own work. 2. Being the photographer keeps me behind the camera, not in front of it. I'm never, ever satisfied completely with how I look in a photograph, and I tend to not even look in the mirror much simply because I know I will be unable to change that which I do not like. In my opinion, I have more business holding a camera than it does holding me.

Despite my preference, I was required to turn in a self-portrait to my photography class. This is what I came up with. Of course, I made sure my face, at least, was not in the photograph. I'd like to think it was done artistically, but the fact is, I was just hiding.

But here's the thing about pictures I've come to realize. Pictures can capture. Photographs can imitate. Photographs can be so real that their flaws are indistinguishable to any eye. But photographs are merely representations of reality. A reflection in the mirror is simply a representation of what sits before it. They are separate entities and in no way 100% true to reality. By looking at this picture, you can make assumptions about what I look like, about who I am, and about what I am like. Even if my face was in this photograph, you could only assume. The only way to truly see me is to see me, to see me in person and to experience me in the real world.

And just as a photograph is only a representation of the real world, the real world is only an imitation of that which is eternal and pure. When sin entered the world, it distorted a perfect creation and muddled our perspective of God and all that is good that comes from Him. When you see a bad picture of yourself it would be unreasonable to immediately dislike you as a person simply because the photograph presents you in an unfavorable way. That is why we delete "bad photographs." We don't delete ourselves because of a bad photograph.

The world we see now is naught but a muddled, imperfect, and adulterated representation of what God had originally intended. But God didn't delete it. Instead, God is showing His infinite power and glory and love by working miraculously in a world that can hardly see. When the curtain is drawn back; when the Claritin kicks in; when the clouds are dispersed by a glorious Sun, then we shall see Creation for what it truly is. Paul says in First Corinthians 13:9,10,12 "For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears...Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

When we enter into eternity, the representations and imitations will fall away. We shall see the principles after which all else had formerly been modeled. We will see love in its truest form. We will understand what we had spent a past life simply trying to imagine. We will see "face to face." And, I am guessing, we will tremble.

So I took my self-portrait, reassured that it would only be a mere representation (but still uncomfortable enough to hide my face). I took my place behind the camera and I took my place before it; I focused, checked the exposure, and pressed on a little button that happened to be black.

Warmth. Symmetry. Color.

I'd really like to thank all the people who read my blog. Or those who just look at the pictures! There's no shame in that. Both are mine and are equally important to me: text and image. I'd like to use this post to explain just exactly what I personally look for in a photograph, and the types of images I have a tendency to create because of my preferences. The picture above is not my favorite photograph that I have ever taken, but it embodies quite well almost all of the aspects about a photo I most enjoy. Don't get me wrong, I love many types of photography just as I love many types of writing styles. I like portraiture, botanical photography, still lifes, photojournalistic photography, and many other categories. Within even these branches of photography there are a myriad of different directions a photographer can take his image (whether film or digital). Out of my own work, though, some specific traits carry over from photograph to photograph, subtly binding all my work together and to me no matter the subject or even the category. In color, digital photography, the first thing I do before I even look at the minute details of the piece is warm it up. Sometimes the warming is heavy handed and other times its barely noticeable at all, but I, personally, cannot stand a cold photograph. This is not to say that such photographic preferences are wholly incorrect because cooling a photo often works well for the subject or what the photographer is trying to say. I, however, cannot bring myself to produce a cold image. You'll see throughout all my color, digital photography (including, obviously, the one featured here) a common trait of warmth.

Often, a scene will call for the use of "thirds" by the photographer to create a nice looking image. The "Rule of Thirds" is commonly used through almost all photography because of its natural appeal to the eye. It helps balance the photograph. Another way, however, to create this balance is the use of symmetry. I love symmetry. Symmetry is also often used within the bounds of the Rule of Thirds like it is used above. Symmetry, paired with the Thirds, is another one of my favorite aspects about some of my images. I do not always use symmetry as it is not often called for by a scene. But when its use is acceptable, I jump at the chance. This photograph is one of my favorite uses of symmetry and the Rule of Thirds together. As you can see, the bench is centered within the frame. But, also, all the important sections of color on the bench are located atop the "Thirds" points on the photograph.

Lastly, in a color, digital photograph, I aim for deep blacks and rich color. Simply amping up the contrast and supersaturating the colors achieves an entirely different (and, in my opinion, an entirely sub-par) appearance. I drop the blacks by themselves, if, course, they, need to be dropped. If that makes the photo too dark I will then adjust the brightness. Color, on the other hand, is a bit trickier. Color can be brought about to my preferences in a few different ways that I wouldn't be very good at explaining. My goal is to retain the identity of the original color and simply bring it out in full force. Saturating an entire image does not do this but warps hues and the overall feel of the image.

So to make a list, my favorite aspects about my images that I look for (and you will too, now) are: warmth, balance using symmetry with RoT's, rich color, and deep blacks. So now you know, during and after I press that little silver button, a few of things going through my head. Thank you to all the people who read this. And to all those who skim. And those who like the pictures. And even those who quickly exit after seeing the long paragraphs because you make my page counter go up too.

To Pen

Something happens, I think, when pen meets paper; something, of course, more than just the bleeding of ink onto a vacant white. It's as if the paper itself already knows what is to be or what should be scrawled across its blank face. When pen meets paper, a powerful flow of truth bursts like lightning from the emptiness, surges through the pen, the hand, the arm, the chest, and thunders in the heart. It then takes a true writer to harness that flow and write until the paper is laden with truth. A writer, whether of poetry, fictional novels, or biographies, writes about what it is to live. The reader will know truth when they see it, for it is found in all words except those written to intentionally deceive. Those words, those perverted twists of ink, are as apparent to a reader as a misused puzzle piece jammed into the center of the puzzle. It may hold the right shape and fit like all the others, but the image it shows does not correspond with its surroundings. The truth does not willingly dwell with falsehoods. A writer, then, a true writer, must allow the truth to be written unhindered; a writer must write like he is putting together a puzzle, fitting the pieces together as they must be fitted.

The pen is nothing without the paper; the paper is nothing without the writer; the writer is nothing without the pen. To my eye, writing is the most versatile of all the arts. A picture may be worth one thousand words, but with one thousands words a writer could paint a multitude of images in the mind. It is the writer's charge to suffer the onslaught of ideas, stories, passions, and words that beg to be written constantly. It is the writer's duty to do them justice when and while he can. Though it may not realize it, the world is hungry for truth, for something it can stand on. For my part, I will write, because I know I must. Stories must be told, words must be penned, and truth must take root in the minds of all who scan the bleeding ink. Something happens, something profound when pen meets paper; for out of the surge, out of the thundering parade of truth, a seed is planted. A seed is planted and nurtured in the vacant white, and out of the emptiness an inky proclamation of life bleeds its truth into the hearts of all who read what has been written.

Happy Valentine's Day

It wasn’t a warm day, but it wasn’t terribly cold either. She was wearing a light gray sweater and a yellowing white t-shirt. Her ragged jeans dangled white thread onto her scuffed and torn shoes. She was a bit dirty but she was pretty; she was a cute little girl. Her dark hair hung tangled and greasy to her shoulders, and she hid her deep brown eyes behind the mess. The cars flew past her, most unaware of her existence; they were far too busy to notice the insignificant girl. Her dark, tanned skin was radiant despite the thin layer of dirt and car exhaust from the day’s work. She stood on a busy off-ramp, alone but with an air of independence about her. In her right hand she tightly gripped a withering bouquet of red roses, and a bucket of many more bouquets hung in her left. Her innocent eyes pleaded with each driver willing to acknowledge her presence. All but a few ignored her requests. Her eyes clearly said, “Please buy a flower,” and one could almost hear her sweet, accented voice. She needed money to take home to her family.

A young boy fiddled with his iPod in the back seat of the family suburban. His sisters bickered in front of him about what song to listen to on the radio. He drowned out the cacophony with a loud song on the MP3 player to fit his mood. He munched on a few pretzels and angrily eyed his empty can of soda. The family flew down the freeway on a trip to visit the grandparents. He slouched in the seat and struggled against his seatbelt, trying to get comfortable. He mouthed the lyrics to his song and gazed out the window, eyes half shut in boredom. He pulled out his phone to see if anyone had texted or called. No one had. The boy tossed his phone on the seat beside him and unzipped his new black jacket. He had worked that day, out in the yard, but only got paid twenty dollars for all the hard work he did. He was showered and well dressed as he sat in the back seat with his music. The temperature in the car was a little too high for his taste but he didn't comment. They flew off the freeway and screeched to a halt at a red light. The boy lazily stared out the window and saw a little girl. She was holding roses, red roses.

She slowly bent and picked up a fallen rose petal from the ground. She gazed at it peacefully but tears silently jumped from her eyes. She was content but she suddenly felt very alone and isolated. She glanced to her right and then to her left. The small, dark girl finally crouched to the pavement and pressed the rose petal firmly against the asphalt. She pulled the petal toward her along the ground, leaving a dark trail of petal juice on the pavement. She formed a letter. Slowly she formed three more letters after the first and looked at her work. The word was distinct. A tear floated from her cheek and landed on the ground. She knelt and added a question mark to the word.

He set down his cell phone and put away his iPod. The boy stared at the little girl. She wasn’t much younger than him, but her face not only expressed youth but also a strange sense of wisdom and understanding, a weathered face despite the childhood. She knelt to the ground with a red thing in her hand, probably a petal. The boy heard his sisters complaining about the length of the red light but he paid no attention to them for he was focused on the girl. He stared at the word hard, trying to decipher what she had written. The word suddenly jumped from the pavement as he realized what was printed. The girl then bent down and carefully formed a question mark. Tears came to the boy's eyes.

She pushed back the tears and stood up. The little girl looked to the cars waiting at the light and searched for any gaze that would return hers. She saw a boy, with brown hair and piercing eyes wet from some unknown emotion. She looked at him carefully and held up the roses, pleading.

The girl looked straight at him and lifted the roses in his direction. Her beautifully deep, brown eyes pleaded with him. He wanted to buy the flowers. The light turned green as he reached for his wallet and the car lurched forward. A quiet cry of surprise and distress escaped his lips but he kept his eyes locked with hers, apologizing. His sisters looked back at him and asked what the problem was. He replied with a quiet “nothing.” He hung his head and closed his eyes, touched and confused by the strange encounter.

She watched him even as the car sped away. She was surprised by the short-lived encounter. It seemed that he was the first person to truly see her all day long. Her foot began to scuff at the liquid text on the ground before her. One more tear dropped on the remains of what had been written: Love?

Accepted into Change

Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is, after all, inevitable. But some change is tough; some change is difficult; some change is uncomfortable. Getting a new, comfortable mattress that does not squeak with the slightest movement is a change for the better. Adding a family member to a growing clan is a good change, a happy change. Buying a new car, getting braces off, adopting a puppy: these are changes that one rejoices over, these changes bring happiness.
A cousin passes away; a father must uproot his family because of a job change; divorce. These changes break hearts, bring tears, and force people down roads that they do not care to tread. But such is life. Life is a progression of changes until it ceases to be life.
A son goes off to college.
A son, a friend, a brother leaves.
A boy goes off to become a man. To grow up.
This is change, no doubt, but what kind of change? Is it the change that brings tears? breaks hearts? Yes. But is it not also the change that one rejoices over? that one finds happiness in? Yes. And is it not also necessary? inevitable? good? Yes. Change presents itself in many forms. Sometimes the changed went out to achieve change for themselves. Other times it is forced upon them, a phone call, a knock at the door. Forever would they remember that knock as the one that brought them news of change. Of hated change.
Still other times one goes out to find change, but then recoil once they do. "Please," they ask, "Let me have this opportunity. It is time for me to take this step in my life." But when they receive the letter in the mail their heart sinks when they realize what they have done. They have been accepted. Accepted into Change. University of Change.
I found change in the mailbox. It came in a small, red envelope. It read Accepted. Some change is good. Some change is bad. Some, some change, is a lot of both. This is where I found it. With my camera I captured it. I pressed that little silver button. That moment, now, remains unchanged.

Significant Vapor. Magnificent Dust.

I look up to the heavens at night and realize I'm quite small, if not completely insignificant in this massive creation. I'm often reminded of this at church, school chapels, and my own astronomical gazings. I am fairly vaporish. Here today, I am. Tomorrow I will be gone. Vapor. Dust. Very small. I am very small. We are tiny. Like ants. We scurry. We work. We go with the flow. When one of us ventures off on our own we are either stepped on or commended for discovering something new. Little baby ants. We do not heed the ants. Why? Because we are mighty. We are strong. We are the masters. The ants probably have similar discussions amongst themselves. Something like "Those stupid, tiny parasites. They're so small and insignificant. We step on them!" It's all a matter of perspective. We tend to blind ourselves to what is greater than us unless we figure out a way to conquer it. To date, no one has devised a way to conquer God, though there has been at least one attempt. And that didn't end terribly well for the attempter. God is very big. God is very powerful. He is. This is my favorite sentence regarding God because it is so incredibly simple yet shows just how huge God really is. I could not say "John is." That's just silly. John was born, and John will die. That's about all I can do for myself. God, on the other hand, is. Is what? He is. He... is. God, this Being, was, is, and will be; He needs Himself and that is all.

But then He, He who simply is, decided to create the most spectacular work of art that has or will ever exist. And that is me. Yes, of course, the universe is more beautiful, magnificent, and incredible than I am. But what makes me the most spectacular is because I am made with pieces of Him sprinkled on top. He poured Himself into me. I am stained, besmirched, and broken, but to Him, still worth dying for. I was made in His image. And for me, for John Taylor, He became flesh, a form prone to sin, failure, and death, and conquered all three. For me. He did not sin like I do. He did not fail, though, for three days, many thought He had. But He did die, like I will. However, God, rather, the Son of God, who is God, who also is, declared victory over death by returning to life. And this life He offers to me. To us. To all who accept this as truth. We are magnificent. But we are only vapor. It's a strange, terrifyingly great concept.

Before ripping these mushrooms from the ground (why? because I'm bigger than they are), I ran and got my digital Nikon D70. The lighting was too perfect not to shoot something that day. I took a few pictures but realized I was not close enough. I wanted to see much more of the little umbrellas. So I knelt, and then lay down on the grass. The mushrooms were about an inch from the glass and my eye not much further from the view finder. However, a similar feeling came over me as I looked at the little ant umbrella, the same feeling I get when gazing into space. It's almost eerie to see such detail on something so small. Not only did God busy Himself with the stars in the sky but He also took His time on these tiny mushrooms. And how much greater, I thought, am I to Him than these tiny ant furnishings? Once again, feeling very small but very important, I smiled and focused on the little fungi. I waited as an ant meandered across my lens and, then, when it had taken to a blade of grass, pressed gently on that little silver button. God did a good job on these mushrooms, I think.

X

He sat there. She sat there. They sat there. Some alone. Some not. Consumed by sorrow or overwhelmed with joy or suffering the drain of apathy, they waited. The soldier there passed the time. The mother there waited for the whistle of the train. The vagabond there dozed the minutes past. Its seat is marked by tears. The wood still resonates with laughter. The humble throne has carried the large and the small, the rich and the poor, the selfish and selfless. It is the last stop to success. It is the first stop to failure. It is insignificant.

It is thrashed, abused, forgotten, stained, and used un-thanked. It is the point between A and B. It is no one's destination. Its mark is on no map. It is invisible.

I angrily sat down in the chair and slung my backpack over its scarred arm. Two hours I would have to wait. Two hours. I hunched over my book and attempted to pass the time quickly, but I soon became stiff. I straightened up and rolled my shoulders. I let the book fall to the floor. It wasn't very good anyway. My eyes scanned the room. Countless people filed in and out of the terminal. Though a few remained, like myself, stuck for further waiting. One was a soldier. Another was a mother. The last was a younger homeless-looking man with his life, it seemed, on his back. I couldn't imagine where they had all come from. And I could not guess where their travels would take them. Each had a different destination and each were coming from a different place. But each, myself included, were there, at that moment, together, waiting to continue on. This was point X. The point between A and B. AXB I call it. We were all at X. Waiting. If lives were single strands of yarn, each soul a keeper of a single length, point X would be the most infuriating knot any man would ever encounter. It is at X where so many people come into contact with so many people and are, in many cases, left changed by the event. Even if the change is slight, such exposure to such a knot of traveling souls renders even the most calloused traveler softer or harder than he had been hours before.

The soldier stood and left his seat; he walked briskly to a certain gate and disappeared from me. The mother also, after countless glances at her watch, gathered her brood and left. The vagabond and I had then reached our time to leave and we stood to board the Amtrak to San Diego. I picked up my backpack but it felt light. Too light. I looked back to the seat and upon its soft cushion rested my heavy, film, Nikon FA. I picked it up, cranked a square of untouched 35mm film into place, looked through the viewfinder, and saw nothing. Black. Lens cap. I took off the lens cap, peered through the viewfinder, focused, and pressed decisively on that little silver button. And on that square of film I later found my chair. And if one looks carefully enough they can see a chaotic mass of yarn resting peacefully upon the tear-stained cushion of point X.

I'm A Runner. I Run.

My first day, I remember, after putting on my shoes and driving to school, I was completely unready to do what I was volunteering myself to do. Hunter was with me, at least, and the Holden kid, but he was so quiet. Mr. Rouse met us with the rest of the team and spoke to us a bit. The seniors looked bored; the juniors felt empowered with their new sense of authority; the sophomores were thankful they were not the freshman anymore; and the freshmen, well, we, Hunter, Holden, Danny, Austin, and I, felt very small and ill-prepared. Hunter made me do it. I wasn't happy with him. And so it began, my first run. I went from dreading "The Mile" to dreading "The Eight Mile" or "The Ten Mile" in a matter of weeks. In a month I was in shape and pushing myself to new speeds and distances. As the season came to a close I was racing at Bell Jeff Invitational; it was there my running career began a downward spiral. I sprain my ankle at the top of the last hill and raced to the finish on a quickly expanding balloon of an ankle. After that day I was plagued with knee injuries, shin splints, and a myriad of other ailments. On any other team or in any other sport I am sure I would have quit in humiliation and defeat. I am sure of this. But it was not to be, not after having John Rouse as my coach and mentor and not after suffering with my team. Coach Rouse is known, in running, to be the teacher of "mental toughness." It is why a hill does not phase me. It is why I have never walked in a race. It is why my team and I are able to do what our bodies scream they are unable to do.

It wasn't until the end of Junior year, during Track, that I was able to improve because of my lack of serious injury. I qualified for the JV league finals in the 800. I remember the gun going off in that race and taking the first few strides off of the line. I rounded the curve with 6 people in front of me. I controlled my breathing and weighed my options, determining at what point I would make a move. I caught two people on the back stretch and came into the last curve in 5th place. Progress. I had one lap to go and was in range of the four ahead of me. One of those four had over-shot himself and fell behind me rather quickly going into the back stretch. I looked ahead and saw the next runner was the same runner I had raced against in the qualifiers. I smiled because I knew I could beat him. My body screamed at me and my lungs threatened to revolt but I ignored their pleas. Rouse, at that point, was no longer my coach but it was his coaching that enabled me to do what I was about to do. I had reached the point at which I needed to make my final move and begin my full sprint down the last stretch to the finish. And so I went. In every race I have ever run I remind myself of the following as I make the final sprint toward the line: "He will lift me up on wings of Eagles, I will run and not grow weary, I will walk and not be faint." Between my gasping breaths I uttered this as I flew toward the finish. Surely as I soared into third, the runner I passed heard me whispering my prayer. I finished in third, directly behind Marty Riley and Eric Adams. Maranatha came in 1, 2, 3.

Cross Country began again senior year and I ran throughout the summer preparing for camp. Camp is running 100 miles in 8 days in the steepest parts of the state. It is both my favorite and least favorite place on Earth. I remember running to the top of Paradise (a 14 mile run to one of the most beautiful settings I have ever seen) and looking back down the mountain at what I accomplished. It is unbelievable to me what running has done to my life. In the most literal sense, it has put my mountains underneath me. I am able to conquer what I set out to do. As we ran Paradise we sang hymns and smiled at the rock face in front of us as we put one leg in front of the other. It is a strange thing, learning how strong you really are. Before camp ended Coach McCown took all the seniors to Knapp's Cabin, an insignificant landmark on the side of the road. In the middle of the night we sat there and prayed for each other. We laid our hands on one another and asked God to be present in their lives and thanked Him for all He has done with the team.

In four years, with sweat, blood, tears, and countless pairs of shoes, I developed more than in the previous 13. I grew stronger. I was not only physically fit but mentally tough as well. Cross Country ended for me at League Finals in Craig Regional Park. As I crossed the finish line I felt free of the requirement to run at all times. However, I felt a great loss as well. I realized in that moment all I was leaving behind, all I must leave behind. I looked back over the past four years and saw how the race had gone. I began strong, taking that first mile hard, but suffering in the second mile, burdened with injury and a sense of hopelessness. But I persisted into the third mile and felt the strength course through my veins as I saw the finish. In the last sprint I was lifted up on wings like Eagles and I ran harder than I ever had before. I have finished my race.

I have always wondered what my impact on Cross Country would be, how my presence would affect MHS XC. And, in a sense, it did. But it was not my times or my running accomplishments that I know I am leaving behind. It is the relationships I developed and the pain I suffered with my brothers and sisters that will be remembered. But as time passes even that will be forgotten. The Great Effect, then, was not mine on the program, but the program on me. I have been changed for the better. I have been molded into a stronger person and have been wholly refined for the better. My impact on Cross Country will wash away in the tides of time, but I took with me a life changing experience. As the sun set on this stage in my life it rose in the life of another. And so it would continue, developing us runners for the better. I am a runner. I run.

And so I knelt and stared backwards as the last light illuminated this scene. And as time came to sweep away my presence for future runners I found that little silver button beneath my finger. The shutter opened and the tide washed right in.

Fire

The Fire

A fiery ripple grew and grew
Across the mountainside.
On windy gusts small embers blew
And rode an airy slide.

My mountain burned, engulfed in red;
The dry brush fed its rage.
All animals and people fled;
For this thief there's no cage.

The mossy beds and lofty trees
Were left dead in its wake.
I only hope that Heaven sees
And damns this fiery lake.

Some men who took a stand have died;
Still quiv'ring is my lip.
Remember all the men who tried
To stop this monster's trip.

Emily

This is my little sister. I love my little sister. My little sister and I love to fight. We're very good at it. I think for both of us, it's out of pride that we continue to fight, constantly trying to get the upper hand. Often our words become hurtful and far too honed for a simple joke. We both know that the future will be more peaceful between us. We know this because we understand it is childish and stupid to carry on as we are now. My sister knows I love her. I know my sister loves me. I'm more protective of her than she could ever understand. Our relationship reminds me of my relationship with Christ. Obviously Christ does not return my hurtful statements with hurtful quips of His own, but my heart is much the same. I love Christ, and I enjoy loving Him openly for others to see. However, life doesn't always take the turns I want it to take. I blame this on Him. I don't blame Him directly. If I fail my pre-calculus test I don't stand on my desk, shake my fist towards heaven, and yell "This is Your fault!" It's much more subtle; if life's direction is unsatisfactory, I stray from Christ. It's what I'm comfortable with. If I was more comfortable with being openly affectionate to my sister, I would never treat her the way I often do. If I was more comfortable drawing near to Jesus when life got rough, I would never stray from Him. The problem with this, however, is humanity's natural inclination toward the wrong. Of course I'm more comfortable living in pride and animosity! Of course I'm more comfortable living apart from Christ when the going gets tough. I am only human. This is what's expected of me.

It's a good thing Christ is not human, at least not only human. Christ loves us. Christ is love. What does that mean? Christ is the epitome, the perfect and most recognizable symbol, of love. He became flesh, led a sinless life, and died literally an excruciating death. Why? To love us. When my sister fights with me I am unable to love her in the way Christ loves us at all times. My sister and I have moments of such love, of sacrificial love, but they are not long lasting. When I fight at Christ, He responds in love. As a human, I cannot comprehend this. I look forward to the day where I will understand how He loves us. In 1 Corinthians 13, towards the end of the chapter, Paul says "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." He speaks of love and knowledge. When I enter into heaven, I will see love. I will see Love. Until that day, however, I'll be practicing on my little sister.

"My Love"
From Christ to me. From Christ to us.

My love, I cannot walk away.
With you I will forever stay
And by your side I shall remain
Through darkest night and coldest rain.

At times you may not see me here
But, darling, please, you shouldn't fear
For by our God we have been paired;
Our hearts so close our blood is shared.

My child, from me never run;
Our love is stronger than the sun,
But if you stray, return to me;
I want you for eternity.

Oh beautiful you do not know
For I destroy the status quo,
Love, for your life, I've given mine
Upon that cross, beneath that sign.

Don't let the angelic postures and cute smile fool you, this little one can easily send me sprawling. As she danced across the backyard I locked off my Nikon D70 to my tripod and clicked my ultra-telescopic lens into place, so as not to place myself in a dangerous position near the beautiful little monster. It's not often I'm able to look at my little sister for long periods of time; on this occasion I was able. I saw into her past and peeked into her future. I remembered the crazy little baby that would chomp on my rear-end as I sat and watched television and I saw a powerful little lady living out her dreams, unhindered by the foolish males(like her brother) that surrounded her. I focused on that face three times, and three times I pressed on that little silver button. The sound of the shutter alerted her to my presence so I quickly stood and ran.

Our Deepest Fear

Recently, I have begun to learn a little bit more about my life and how I should live it. I decided three years ago that I wanted to be a spiritual leader at my high school. I was denied the title. However, through conversation with others and personal reflection, I have realized that a title is cute and very little more. Do not be misled, I respect and am excited for those who were blessed with the responsibility to be a spiritual leader. We need such named leaders in life, for it is against our nature to take a position of service willingly. But do we truly need a title to stand up for what we believe and publicly act what our hearts profess in private? No. We are called to shine. For the Christian, it would be foolish to hide what God has created. We have been created to love passionately, live in freedom, and act righteously. We are to do all this publicly. We are to be a light in a darkened world, but I do not see my fellow "Christians" acting out what they profess in private. I do not understand why even I am unable to be on fire for the One who knit me together in my mother's womb and who sacrificed His Son so that I might live. I do not understand why I am not shouting for joy every second of every minute of every hour of every day of my life. Yet, if one were to come to a concert or sports event with me, they would experience a sickening irony. At such events, I scream, sweat, and jump for people who do not even know I exist. At church or in my everyday life, I quietly pray to God, occasionally lift my hands conservatively during worship, and talk casually to others about how good He has been to me. Is this a problem? Yes.

We are called to be great. We are called to live for the One who died for us. We are called to shine. So why do we not? Are we afraid of what others may think? Are we bored? Are we unsure if it is acceptable to be on fire for God? Marianne Williamson, the author of a Christian novel, states it quite well:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” -MW

We were made to be wonderful! We were created by a perfect being to be beautiful! Who are we to hide this? And ultimately, when we allow ourselves to be free of our insecurity and we worship God in a fiery passion, we allow others around us to do the same. Some wonder how they could ever be a help to a community of static Christians. This is it; all it would take to revolutionize a community is for a group of people to stand and shine. "And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” Be a change. Those who have read this entry can no longer cling to ignorance. Those who have read this must take a stand. Let us love our Maker openly for He openly loved us.

I knelt beside a bed of awakening California Poppies. Most seemed hesitant to open their beautiful orange petals to the warming sun. Though one poppy, not a significant poppy or a poppy with a title, stretched its legs and open its petals. It drank in the sun with such a glory that it seemed almost unnatural for a little flower to be so significant. However, it knew that it was created for that purpose. Others around it began following suit, once they had seen their equal take the initiative to fulfill its created purpose. I leaned over the little poppy and focused on its face with my Nikon D70. I pressed gently on that little silver button and, even though my shutter was only open for a fraction of a second, the excited little flower grew right through my lens and left a profound impression.

To Dance With Daffodils

Personally, I read quite a bit. I read the newspaper, novels, poetry, Scripture, bill boards on the freeway, and, at times, I even catch myself reading the next few entries in good 'ole Websters. I love to read. Of course, I read for the story, the information, or the feeling. However, what is even more gratifying is the slow dissection and appreciation for each word the author has chosen to use. The best of writers has a purpose for each word. When one reads the work of an acclaimed author, they are able to hold each individual word to a higher standard. These writers are artists of text, having the ability to paint worlds or emotions with mere words.

I generally enjoy writing for myself. I find it inappropriate to quote another unless the feelings they have written about perfectly match my own. However, I find it necessary to quote another if they have explained my emotions and thoughts better than I ever could. This entry is not a cop out; my writing would be simply sub-par to this master's work.

Nature to me is an escape, a bliss, a work of art so masterfully constructed that my jaw falls every time I gaze upon it. Nature as a whole is breathtaking; nature magnified is mind blowing. It is a wonder what a single flower can do to one's soul and it is electrifying to be captured by a host of flowers. William Wordsworth is a master of language. He has explained my feelings perfectly:

"Daffodils"

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

No, these are not daffodils, but the emotion is here. I dropped to my knees before the tiny field of yellow flowers and raised my Nikon D70 to my eye. It took me ages to finally decide which flower to focus on. My breathing stalled and I pressed gently on that little silver button, allowing the wind to blow the field of flowers through my camera and into my "inward eye."

Focus

Only a liar would say that the world is free of hardship, that life is vindicated from suffering and loss. Those who have eyes to see and ears to hear understand that suffering has proliferated every life of every individual on the planet. Suffering does not heed anyone, nor does it favor any particulars. Suffering simply is; burdens are ever-present and all must carry a load. Some, of course, have drawn the short straw in life and are much less well off than others, but pain becomes present at every level of society; none are excluded.

We hope and pray for a day that will be different; we hope for a time that is free of hardship, pain, and weariness. Some try to ignore life altogether, in hope that pain or even death will overlook them. Others focus intently on every detail that occurs, trying to combat the inevitable and striving to change what is already written in stone. These men and women scrutinize their downfall, examine their inability, and study their loss. Such lifestyles produce the most stressed and wearied of all people. What these individuals do not understand is that the past is set in stone. Their studying and scrutinizing is all for naught because the past is unchangeable. So ignore the past? No! Learn from the past to prevent similar mistakes and situations in the future. But to dwell on hardship and suffering is quite simply unhealthy.

When one focuses so intently on what went wrong, they fail to see what is going right, all around them, all the time. These people are so blinded by their close scrutiny of one event, that they cannot see the good that yet remains in life. We are surrounded by blessings, surrounded by good. We live in a world that is destined for perfection and the Creator of the Universe waits along with us for all good to come about. Paul comments on this in Romans 8:20-21, "For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the One who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God." He is waiting for all evil to pass just as we are. But in the mean time, we MUST look to what is good. We cannot dwell on the failures and pain of this world for it will only lead to our decay.

The solution is not to ignore the bad in life; think about it, mourn, and move on. Learn from such mistakes, do not muddle the present with the past. And, lastly, focus on the good in life; ponder and rejoice over what has been achieved, not what has been lost. Paul comments again in 2 Corinthians 4:18 saying "So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." He takes it a step further by saying that we should focus on what transcends even the good in life; we should keep our sights focused on what is eternal.

As I meandered through a garden at the Arboretum, I was floored by the sheer volume of beauty the grounds contained. Not only was the land un-trampled by industrialization, it was filled to capacity with all that is considered naturally beautiful. However, on a particular bush planted directly before me, there was an obnoxious flower, or, rather, the remains of a flower, that had died. Its presence in the garden was small, and its significance on the grounds was infinitesimal. Yet, I was so drawn to it I could hardly look away. It seemed to glare at me, saying something along the lines of "Ha, now you cannot enjoy the garden." And it was almost true! The decrepit flower had drawn my attention so strongly that I had lost complete sight of the gargantuan amount of beauty that surrounded me. I approached the flower and, kneeling down beside it, lifted my Nikon D70 to my eye. I attempted to focus on the yellow beauties that lay beyond and around the decaying individual, but my camera seemed to focus itself on the lifeless plant. I allowed my own eye to focus on the stiff, unattractive petals and pressed gently on that little silver button. I heard the sound of my shutter open and close on a subject that quite bitterly resembled death. I stood and walked away, unable to appreciate or even remember the other vivacious flowers in its company.

Life's Ladder

I imagine life as this existence suspended in time and resting on a unique ladder of experiences and journeys, each rung representing a decision or step. No two people can use the same ladder; though, at times, two ladders may converge when their keepers journey together through life. No ladder is eternal and no ladder can bear their traveler forever. I think the ultimate question in life is "where will the future take me and where will my path lead?" However, most people will find out the hard way that life does not carry the living along. Life, on the contrary, has an agenda of its own and may or may not be looking out for each individual. In order to get anywhere in this life, one must make the effort themselves or get left in the dust. If the process of living was any other way, I would have photographed an escalator or something of the sort. Yet here we all stand, on our ladders, each with a singular past and a unique destiny, enduring existence and hanging on.

Realistically, there are only two directions one can travel on an ladder, up and down. Traveling down a ladder is easier on one's body, however, it can be much more dangerous. On the other hand, traveling up a ladder is much more difficult but the traveler is ultimately safer. Anyone who has spent any time on a ladder will know this to some degree. So then my point? To be blunt and un-suspenseful, those who travel up the ladder are searching for a higher purpose. I climb the ladder because I know Christ will meet me at the top. Those who descend the ladder are looking for the easier way through life. However, this descent will ultimately destroy all those who knowingly or ignorantly descend to the depths.

Life is about choices and decisions. Make these choices; do not remain standing on one rung of the ladder. But also, in these choices and decisions, try to climb. Make the better decision, take the high road, do the more difficult thing. In the end those who climb will end up where they want to be, on top on a life well lived. If one takes the easy way through life, they will end up in a pit, an inescapable and damning chasm of darkness. There are two ways to live, the right way, and the wrong way. There are many ways to climb and many ways to descend, but the important factor of living is that an ascent, not descent, is seen.

Up my ladder I looked, weary but sure of my purpose and destination, pulling my Nikon FA over my shoulder I lifted it to my eye. I peered through the viewfinder and saw my future. I focused on my future, not daring to focus on the past, and, with a gentle press on that little silver button, loaded my film with all that has yet to even occur.

Failure

This gate, in the window of an housed fireplace on Maranatha campus, is beautiful. It was crafted to perfection by a trained hand. It is profound. It is not natural. It is art.

I'm convinced that passions and desires and goals, because of their crafted nature, are artistic as well. As for me, I have goals and desires and passions. I have a future in mind for myself. I have crafted it so that it is truly beautiful within my mind. However, and to my disappointment, sometimes life does not allow one to pursue their passions by the vehicle they originally selected. In these times, one is forced to abandon what they had hoped to achieve and look for another route to accomplish their goals and to fuel their passions. Such a road block has occurred in my own life; a goal and desire I had for so long, molded into a truly beautiful future, was thwarted. Now is the time to readjust, but remorse is unavoidable. My sadness comes from the abandonment of my specific route of action, from my planned future, and from my work of art. Though I know I am capable of creating anew and enduring a longer road of uncertainty, there comes a sense of loss, to leave your art work behind and to let the cobwebs collect over its beautifully planned frame for you know its form will soon crumble to ruin. As for me, I search for the next goal, the next path, the next desire to strive for. I am not deterred. Though, there, behind me, stands my former goal, already wilting from failure's heat.

As I stood in the darkened fireplace room, the forgotten window gate, the forgotten art, saddened me. I knew it was too late for the gate, and that the spiders had claimed it for good, but the idea was too present to merely walk away. I lifted my Nikon D70 to my face, pressed that little silver button, and, hearing the sound of my shutter, knew I would not soon forget one man's past art.

Finally, Proof.

I find it funny when one's parents attempt to convince their child that going to the dentist is not all that bad. Well, I'm here to tell you that parents are liars, and the dentist is the most evil, sadistic man to walk the planet. I know this for sure. This is not opinion; this is factual and proven to be true.

On the DAT, Dental Admission Test, there is a personality test that each applicant must take. Results of said test show the individual to be of benevolent or villainous character. Acceptance of the former character trait is rare and only if the applicant scores in the top 99th percentile. On the contrary, an individual with a personality test revealing high levels of cruelty does not need such a high test score and will be accepted in a percentile as low as the 85th. What does this information mean?

The ADA, American Dental Association, was sued in 1979 on 237 accounts of subjective acceptances of applicants based on personality testing and not test scores. When the case was taken to the Supreme Court, the ADA was found not-guilty and all accounts were mysteriously dropped. The ADA was threatened by the U.S. government to make sure their methods were more standard and objective. Since then, in the past 40 years, the ADA has perfected their entrance exam so that it is fully lawful but still only accepts those of malicious character.

This being said, to all those whose parents force them to go to the dentist's office, beware, you are correct and your parents are horribly misinformed. As I warily entered a small, quaint dental office in Glendale, I stood on my guard, keeping a watchful eye for the savage individual in the blood specked smock. As I lay in wait, patiently, I noticed this lone chair in a white-washed room. Strangely, and for reasons no one could ever justify, this chair was plugged into the wall. I do not suggest that this dentist electrocuted his patients, for a true master is much more subtle in his approach. To document my findings, I lifted my film Nikon FA and cranked the film into place. I looked over my shoulder and made sure I was safe to drop my guard and look through the viewfinder. All was safe and I peered through the tiny hole. I set the exposure, checked the focus, and, pressing gently on that little silver button, heard the open and close of my shutter. Pleased with my work, I put my camera back into my bag and turned around. Standing there before me, blood stained and wearing a cunningly vicious smile, was my dad, the dentist, holding a honed scalpel.

A Spacial Explosion

The hype about modern art has always eluded me and it seems that standards of this modern art are even deteriorating to simpler concepts and stranger concoctions. For example, in a prestigious museum one might find a red ball on a white pillar in the modern art gallery. What makes me chuckle is what people will pay for such works of art. Maybe I have been lost in the past and my thinking and perception of art has become increasingly archaic. Maybe it takes years of schooling and experience to truly understand all a red ball on a white pillar has to say, possibly. Maybe it's out on my cynicism I say that a red ball on a white pillar is not really artistic. I have a red ball in my garage and I'm sure I could find a white pillar at the local garden supply. With some super glue and a cute little caption I could make $599.95. I hope this does not just show how ignorant I am on the topic of modern art, but, to be truly honest, I do not get it.

However, a type of modern art that does actually appeal to me is the painting, drawing, or photographing of an abstract image. This idea is not as modern or new as the red ball on a white pillar, but it seems to be a step from the traditional to the modern. I enjoy this step. Artists from Picasso to Man Ray moved from portraying the romantic and realistic to showcasing a different genre of imaging. At times, these works have the ability to provoke more thought and emotion than any medium or genre before them. Because of their ambiguity and generalization, the viewer has the ability to run in many directions with what they perceive. Abstract art has a hold on every medium, from painting to photography to sculpture and even in music.

Here is my first, feeble attempt at such an image. I sat in the passenger seat of the car going through a car wash. The process was almost over and I, as every curious person does, had my face plastered to the window, trying to see how the whole contraption worked. I felt the water shoot against the window and vibrate along my cheekbone. The huge dryer came next and plopped lazily down on the hood of the car. As it blew the water up and off the windshield, I picked up my Nikon D70, removed the lens cap, set the exposure, and, pressing gently on that little silver button, heard the open and close of my shutter. Later, while tinkering around on Photoshop, decided that this image had abstract quality. To me this image makes me feel... well, I'll let you decide that for yourself.

A Singular Meeting

Few times in life is the taking a picture of a sunset acceptable, very few times. So few that the only acceptable case where such a shot is allowed is if God Himself commands you to do so. I chuckle when I see photos of sunsets. So, for all of you who have chuckled at this image already, take it back. The Creator of the Universe commanded me to capture this particular image.

As I returned from a hike in the Angeles Crest Mountains, my eyes were intensely focused on the the lay of the trail before me, so as to save my weak ankles from an accidental roll. Night was coming quickly and I was trying to reach the end of the trail and my bicycle so I could get home before complete darkness came. The temperature was dropping a bit but still warm enough to be comfortable. The peace was needed after a stressful week at school and the silence was truly profound. I was content in my solitude, with little on my mind. Suddenly, as I rounded a bend in the trail carved into the side of the mountain, I saw Him. He smiled as He saw me, as if He was patiently waiting for my arrival. He motioned to my backpack and I knew He was about to do something worthy of remembrance. I, without taking my eyes off Him, reached into my backpack and pulled out my digital Nikon D70 and tripod. As I set up my equipment, He pulled out His own choice tools and laid them out before me. We seemed to face off with our mediums, like two soldiers in battle preparing to meet. I had my tripod locked off, facing my subject, ready to capture it. Like two runners on the starting line, we waited for the gun, tense, ready, and prepared for the following second.

He, like a western gunslinger in a draw, took up his brush and paints in a flash of orange and red. I responded to His move and dropped my anxious eye to the viewfinder. In a flurry of strokes and splashes, He arced His way across the sky and filled it with His glory and passion. I perspired, with my finger on that little silver button, waiting in tense anticipation for my moment to come. In a dramatic sweep of His arm He presented His work; a painting so great and so majestic the entire sky could hardly contain it. In this instant I checked my exposure, set my focus, and, with a final push of my finger, heard the sound of my shutter open and close, each pixel taking on more color and weight than it had ever done before. In the very next second, a thick darkness reclaimed the sky and erased the work. However, and to the disappointment of said darkness, I stood there triumphant, holding in my camera a masterpiece that the darkness would be unable to erase. I waltzed down the mountain trail, no longer worried about the darkness; I carefully carried an expanse of marvelous light in my hand.

Where Your Treasure Is, There Your Heart Will Be Also

As I passed this house on a walk through campus, I thought to myself, "Wow, they did well. Look at that. I wish I could live in such a house." But the more I thought about it, the more ominous the house became to me. By the time I stood up to go back to class, I had a much different opinion than my initial impression.

What makes the world go 'round? Happiness? Peace? No and no. Could it be love? Not a chance. The world, or at least the portion of the world deemed important, does not survive on human emotion, good works, or law, but it is driven and fueled by money. What is money? Webster says money is a unit that "measures value or worth." I believe this is a very accurate definition. We go to school to learn so, in time, we will learn a trade in order to make money. Generally speaking, we are happy in times of excess and sad in times of depletion. Why? Because money can provide a man with comfort in this life. We are taught that money is important. In a Christian school, we are taught that money is important and told that money is evil. We are informed that we need to make money and we are preached to about why money means nothing. Though this may seem hypocritical, it is expected. We live in a world where we need money. But we were made for a different purpose. Where is that line and how do we live on faith alone in an environment where we are taxed on our very breath?

The rich in this world are important. The rich are successful. The rich are revered. The rich have power in this life that those without money do not possess. However, is this the final say? The Word has a much different opinion of the rich man. In 1 Timothy 6:9 it says "People who want to get rich fall into temptation and traps and into many foolish and harmful desires that plunge men into ruin and destruction." Is this view cynical or accurate? Many want to get rich, but few succeed to the desired degree. Those who fail, crash hard into "ruin and destruction." But what about those who do succeed? Christ says in Mark 10:25 "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God!" Christ had a much more comprehensive view of man's existence than a mere man does. He understood that the wealth in this life only distracts us from our ultimate goal, Heaven. Christ reinforces this idea when he says in Luke 12:34 "Sell your possessions and give to the poor: Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." The words reverberate in my mind, "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." Is our treasure on Earth? Is our stock in wealth or is it in God?

In today's economy, nothing is certain, all is unstable. There is no firm investment except the investment of the heart in Christ's firm foundation. Wealth is uncertain! The world is incapable of ensuring the security of your money, wealth, or your material treasure. 1 Timothy 6:17-19 says "Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God...and to be generous and willing to share. In this way they will lay up treasure for themselves as a firm foundation for the coming age, so that they may take hold of the life that is truly life."

In my mind, God was laughing when He said this one, but the implications might even be disturbing to some: Leviticus 25:23 says "And remember, the land is Mine, so you may not sell it permanently. You are merely My tenants and sharecroppers!" We are renting! We do not even own the land that we have bought. So how should we live when the land is not our own, money is uncertain, and the world does not have our back, no matter what the government may claim. The best example of how to use your money may be this: Jesus pointed out a particular woman to his disciples in Mark 12:42-44, "But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins (to the offering in the temple), worth only a fraction of a penny. Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, 'I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.'" If this woman had faith enough to, even in her poverty, give to God, then how should we of more comfortable circumstances use our money? We are told to tithe, but do we only allow God hold of 10% of our finances? We are taught to live by faith, for Christ has our back if we put our stock in him. No other man, woman, or system in existence can make such a claim.

The ominous house, framed by the trees, and lifted by the extensive stair case, was just a house, a symbol of wealth, and possibly a warning to those who consider the implications of wealth in this life. I rarely get a chill up my spine when I press that little silver button and hear the sound of my shutter, but this was one of the more singular experiences.

Life

Life defined is as follows: "the condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects and dead organisms, being manifested by growth through metabolism, reproduction, and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally." Life is scientific. Life is measured. Life is defined. Life is able to be measured and defined by scientific methods because science has a been given an opposite, or a zero. The opposite of life is non-life, or death. In order for an organism or being to come into life, from death, requires certain characteristics present in each singular environment. A fish needs water. A plant needs light. A fly needs food. There are a number of necessities to life that, without their presence, death comes quickly or life does not begin in the first place. This is new to no one and rarely will one question the necessities of the body. So life is the development from non-life into life based on an organism's ability to metabolize, reproduce, and adapt to its environment. Also, and more importantly, to sustain such life requires certain external stimuli and support to remain living or sustain life. However, are we just machines? Are we solely a definition in a dictionary? Are we really that normal?

Webster goes on to say, in his extensive (but possibly not comprehensive) definition on life, the following: "a corresponding state, existence, or principle of existence conceived of as belonging to the soul." In my opinion, what Mr. Webster is attempting to say is that there is more to life than a body. We are more. There is a "corresponding state" of existence that survives apart from the body. This existence is life, however it is not life of the body, nor is it connected to the life or health of the body. This is the soul.

The soul is life. What is life? Life, when pertaining to the soul, is a state of the soul that does not know death. The soul has its needs, just as the body has its needs. Similarly, if the soul is deprived of its needs, it will die.

As humans, we tend to feel comfortable in darkness, in hiding, in sin. It's here that our minds have been molded into being comfortable. Our souls are filthy, but the thought of exposing one's soul to cleaning is so unattractive and so painful that the decision to do so is a difficult one to make. Humans are comfortable in the darkness, but we are healthy in the light. What, then, is light for the soul? The apostle John records Christ's words as this: "I am the Light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." This would be a bold and weightless statement from a man, but from the Son of God, it's quite pointed and unavoidable. Christ is Light. Our souls need light to live, His light. Our body needs certain things to sustain life. Our soul needs certain things to sustain life. Eat and live. Follow Christ and live. It's scientific my friends. It's scientific.

Shed your darkness. Take off your hat. Come outside into the light. Be free of the shade, of the darkness, and of sin. Cast away your umbrella, allow your face to be illuminated. Come into the warmth and light of Christ. It is the only way you will survive. This is what everyone considers when seeing a girl with an umbrella right? Maybe not. I raised my Nikon FA to my peculiar eye, checked the exposure, pressed gently on that little silver button, and, hearing the open and close of my shutter, knew I would have a little something to write about.

The Dreamer's Dream

I envy those who are able to actively and easily leave reality. I wish I had the ability to jump on a flying carpet and go see New York. I wish I had the capacity to develop worlds within my mind. I would love to be able to see things that no one else can see, and to see them clearly. I know very few people with this talent personally, and even fewer who have complete control over their talent. It seems to me that if we could all slay dragons in algebra class, tour Rome while doing yard work, or even take a nap on a cloud when, in actuality, it's naught but a couch, life, and all its more depressing components, would become much more bearable and possibly even enjoyable.

In my house, in order to get to the bathroom, I must walk through my little sister's room. When I open the door I see a bed, a desk, a mirror, a closet, and countless piles of strange trinkets she has collected over the years. I see nothing more. I obviously make this trip quite often and I see the same scene every time I enter her room. However, I am convinced, this is not what she sees. The above picture is not of my sister nor is it of her bedroom, but the idea is very much present. As my dear friend walked through the door of my garage, I had a quickly passing, strangely sensational idea. I called her back and told her to walk through the door once again. She did so and, in mid-step, I pressed that little silver button that, when I heard the open and close of my shutter, knew that only half on my image was captured. Later on, I captured a beautiful blue sky painted with large, billowy clouds. I then put them together into one, single image. I'm not entirely sure at what Emily sees, but this is what I see.

To Emily, I'm jealous of your creative mind:


I'm jealous of the dreamer's dream,
Of sights and sounds extreme.
I envy the ability
To leave reality.

I stare at her, her dancing there,
Completely unaware;
Perfect kind of aberration:
Mindful vindication.

She's met them all, all in her brain,
Save dragons not quite slain.
I think she's now contently smug
On swiftly flying rug.

She opens doors to worlds unknown
And calls the clouds her own.
I'm jealous of the dreamer's dream,
Of things not often seen.

Opinionated Artists

A friend of mine once gave me a little book full of quotes and sayings by some of the wisest and most intuitive men and women to ever walk the planet. Her explanation for the gift was this: "Many have said what needs to be said much more gracefully and memorably than I could ever hope to be. Here are my thoughts through the mouths of others." I have kept that little quote book going and very much enjoy adding the profound to its pages. It is an extremely heavy little book. The above picture needs to be explained to you, but I have found that others have already said what I want to say much better than I could ever hope to put. I am far from the best photographer and even farther from being the most profound. I stand meekly in great shadows. However, with the help of the casters of these great shadows, I hope to explain to you the photograph.

Ansel Adams is one of the greatest names in photography and, in my mind, is one of the wisest in the medium. Photography is not merely the pressing of a button. Photography extends far past the camera into the mind of the photographer. Adams puts it best, "When I'm ready to make a photograph, I think I quite obviously see in my minds eye something that is not literally there in the true meaning of the word. I'm interested in something which is built up from within, rather than just extracted from without." A photograph is much more than the gathering of light in the fibers of a paper or the printing of pixels on a piece; a photograph is the capture of an idea, a passion, an emotion, or a theme. This, combined with the assumed objectivity of a photograph leads Adams to his next point, "Not everybody trusts paintings but people believe photographs." A work of art can be twisted, warped, created, and pressured to be something outside of reality much easier than a photograph could ever be. Photography is art, but it is also a window to reality that people allow themselves the capacity to believe. Ferdinando Scianno said "A photograph is not created by a photographer. What they do is just to open a little window and capture it. The world then writes itself on the film. The act of the photographer is closer to reading than it is to writing. They are the readers of the world." A photograph has the ability to capture all that it sees. Adams says "We must remember that a photograph can hold just as much as we put into it, and no one has ever approached the full possibilities of the medium."

Possibly my favorite quote in regard to photography is from Francis Bacon, "Jesus would have been one of the best photographers that ever existed. He was always looking at the beauty of people's souls. In fact Jesus was constantly making pictures of God in people's life by looking at their souls and exposing them to His light."

In this madness and flurry of opinion, I've extracted nothing but contradictory opinions from different photographers and their personal feelings on the photograph. What is a photograph? Is it what the photographer intends it to be or what the viewer makes of it? Could it be both?

To be honest, as I sat in my backyard looking at a small, rusted birdbath, not many thoughts crossed my mind. To be as accurate as possible, what crossed my mind was most probably exactly this, "Well, that's pretty." And, drawn by beauty and nothing more, I lifted my old Nikon FA to my eye, set the exposure, and, when I pressed that little silver button, let the world write itself onto my film.

"A true photograph need not be explained, nor can it be contained in words." -Ansel Adams

A Moment

I find it thought provoking in the least to consider a moment in time for a single individual. There are six and one half billion people on this planet and there is a unique and distinctive moment for each and every second they are alive. A photograph, especially of a person, is the capturing of just one moment in a time-line so profound that only God could possibly comprehend it. These moments added together create history, each moment is necessary and as important as the one prior and the one following. Every moment to every person is important and every moment should be lived as if it were the last. This saying is no longer cliche. This idea is valid and to the point.

As i sat in a small coffee shop drinking a delicious Italian soda, I looked across the room and saw this man sitting, writing, and pondering something far more complex than I was. He had no idea that his presence in the room brought these thoughts to my mind. He will never know the affect his being there had on me in that single moment. He may never see his picture. He may forget that day in the coffee shop altogether, but I will not. This is why we must live to the best of our ability in each moment because we never know when our actions or even simple presence will affect another. Each moment has the potential to change the world or to change someone's world. We are generators of moments. We are producers of change. We are keepers of progression.

The Huge, Tiny City

Humans were made in the image of God, and this is obvious. Humankind is powerful, wise, and strong. We have sent man to the moon; we have bridged great rivers; we have touched the sky with our skyscrapers. We have constructed great cities that tower over our heads and are known world wide. We have created light. We have looked into the vast reaches of space and into the darkest depths of the human body. We are great. We are powerful. We are special.

Or are we? Yes, we are made in the image of God, but are our accomplishments so great? Are our cities so extravagant? Are we really that powerful? Are we actually invincible? Because of our pride and our assurance in our own ability, we have led ourselves to believe that we are powerful enough to tame the Earth and to rule over it like gods. Who are we to even think such a thought?

I am not invincible. I am not all-powerful. I am really, actually not. No one is. A man will stand on the top of the tallest building in LA and declare himself and humanity important because we have defied gravity and kissed the very sky. But, as he stands there in his own, fake glory, I take a picture of the entire city from a true masterpiece of design, a mountain. I stand on the lower foothills of a great mountain that passes the very clouds, and I see the great city in the distance. I do not see the important man. I see no one at all. I remembered what Neil Armstrong said after returning from his mission to the moon, "It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small." I put up my thumb and I blotted out all of LA, every man and woman frantically going about life in that huge, great city. We are not great. We are not all-powerful. We are, in the grand scheme of things, quite simply nothing. Yet the Creator of this vast Universe made Himself into a nothing and gave his life so that we might live. I lifted my digital Nikon D70, set the exposure, tried to focus on the pinprick of a city, and, when I pushed the little silver button, hoped that Los Angeles did not have too much trouble climbing into my lens.

Memories

On a trip to the dump, I was met with this simple image of an old couch that had seen its day and was now discarded so its previous owner could purchase a new and better looking piece of furniture. It gave me a strange feeling inside, knowing that the couch had been used and then thrown out when it was no longer wanted. I felt stupid for thinking such a ridiculous thought because it would be childish to think that the couch cared one way or the other. The scene surrounding the dejected couch may have been the culprit for my internal angst; the dump was a graveyard of unwanted items that had at one point been useful or wanted by someone. Themes of betrayal and pain danced in my mind as I tried to imagine the vast amount of memories that couch held, from Christmases to Sunday football games.

My dad called me back to the truck to help him unload a mass of nail infested walling from a project in our house. I slipped on my worn, leather gloves and got to work unloading the abusive cargo. However, the ideas the forgotten couch had evoked inside of me still stirred and whirled around within my ever-brooding mind. I let my thoughts drift back to imagining all the memories that the couch could have possibly seen in its day. I was rudely brought back to reality with a previously unseen nail that set itself into my arm as if it had belonged there all along. My dad laughed at my mistake and told me not to get his gloves bloody. I chuckled at this but went back to my couch thoughts. We finished up with the unloading and I slipped off my gloves and set them in the car. My dad hopped in the drivers seat and turned on the ignition. I looked back at the couch and realized that I could not just forget about such a special piece of trash. I jumped out of the car with my digital Nikon D70 and, when I pressed that little silver button, felt my camera take on the heavy burden of years of memory and even a little wisdom. With the sound of the shutter, I knew the couch would at least not be forgotten in a graveyard of once-loved memory holders. I turned around and saw my dad driving slowly away, making me run after him. I knew he was laughing to himself.

A Profound Cliché

The term cliché is a phrase, expression, or idea that has been overused to the point of losing its intended force or novelty, especially when at some time it was considered distinctively forceful or novel. It is generally used in a negative context, and I use it quite negatively when referring to the above subject. When I look through my viewfinder, I search for an image that is original, or at least original to me. I admit, at times I am tempted to photograph a sunset, a baby, an autumn leaf floating down a stream, a white picket fence, a rose, or a cornucopia of others. This candle, my candle, is cliché. The image has been done time and time again, and plenty of eyes have rolled quite dramatically over the meeting of this image. This is my disclaimer and acknowledgment of my cliché.

In my mind, there are four parts to the entity of the photograph: the subject in reality, the image captured, the intended meaning of the image, and the meaning the viewer takes for him or herself. The photographer can completely control only two of these, as reality cannot be completey controled by the photographer and the viewer's perception is entirely subjective to themself. I will explain the first three for my candle, and I will leave the last up to you.

It was almost Christmas and it was raining incredibly hard outside. If one closed their eyes and imagined an occasional bark or meow, the classic saying would be quite believeable. The power had gone out and the house was littered with small candles, flickering only when someone disturbed the still air. I sat on the couch with my Nikon in my lap, angry that I had no light to shoot the Christmas themed image for class. The temptation to accidently set a candle under the Christmas tree was strong, but not strong enough to cover up the knowledge of inevitable punishment. I sat and wished the candle would burn just a little brighter so my third eye could see the small nativity scene on the coffee table. I set my camera next to the nativity scene, with the lens facing the candle. Out of boredom, not the prospect of an original photograph, I knelt, focused on the wavering flame and opened my shutter for a brief moment by pressing that little silver button.

The darkness around the flame was opressive, and it seemed that the darkness itself had the ability to extinguish the flame. I stood up and retrieved two more candles from the mantle and set them next to the first on the coffee table. The darkness surrounding immedietly backed off a few inches. I was reminded of a hymn in that moment that spoke of running into the darkness with your candle, and of joining with others to shine brighter than before. I walked around the house and gathered all the candles I could find and set them on the coffee table. The darkness reluctantly stepped further and further back from the amassing light. It became clear to me then that the idea of community is entirely accurate. In scripture, the body of Christ is referred to as a city on a hill or an uncovered lamp, the only light in a dark world.

The image above may look like a clichéd photograph of something done time and time again, but the truth is, this candle is not really a candle at all. In reality, this wax cyllinder carrying a small flame may be called a candle, but in my photograph it is not. This is a self portrait. The candle is me, alone and oppressed by the dark, but soon to stand with a multitude of other in a marvelous light.