Fish Grave – Under Colby’s Tree

I buried Ryan’s two dead fish today.  His charges.  I wasn’t going to.  I was going to flush them down the toilet and call it a day. And then Ryan’s little face got to me.  And his friend Noah’s face got to me too.

“Mom, I don’t want you to flush them.  Okay?  Can you bury them?  In the back yard?  But do it while I’m at school, okay?  Cause it would be too hard to watch.”

Yeah. Sure,  I thought.  I’m going to stop my day of a million responsibilities, after a night of staring at the ceiling, wondering what the heck matters, and I’m supposed to find the time, energy and presence of mind to scoop dead fish and dig a hole and bury them in my back yard?  And honor them in some way, too, I suppose?  And not even with my kids – not even for a “feel good” moment of connection – the kind of moment that makes me feel like the most awesome mom for a nanosecond?  One quick flush, a little lie about a peaceful burial, and I can move on to my next chore.

Then I had a shift.  I remember how those fish came to be ours.  Ryan’s best friend, Noah, gave Ryan those fish.  Noah moved here from California.  He immediately related to Ryan’s softness, his not-so-athleticness, and Ryan’s dog, Colby, who reminded him of a dog they’d just lost, Jett. As the months passed, they bonded over the loss of their dogs, over Star Wars Lego guys, and the rescuing and training of their new crazy dogs. His mom and I did, too.  As I type this, I can still hear Noah’s and Ryan’s laughter coming from the upstairs bedroom.

Without much warning, Noah’s family needed to move back to California.  Ryan was heartbroken, but Noah had asked Ryan to keep his fish for him.  Forever.  This wasn’t just a fish-sitting job.  Ryan was asked to ADOPT them.  Feeling proud to be regarded as “animal people,” we immediately agreed. Plus, it was a way for Ryan to hold on to Noah.  To nurture something OF Noah.  FOR Noah.

So we cared for those fish pretty well.  I, busy and scattered, did not do enough for the fish.  I left the feeding and care of the fish up to Ryan.  I didn’t even know their names. (One is named Oreo, I think.  That’s all I know.)  I would walk by from time to time and see that they were clean and happy, but I was most definitely removed from their care.  I told Ryan, once in a while, what a great job he does every morning – either feeding the fish himself, or delegating to one of his sisters.  But I wish I’d taken the opportunity to really, really do more.

This morning, still in pain about other yucky stuff floating around in my universe, I drove Abby to preschool and focused, the whole ride home, on these fish.  I cried. I actually cried.  Isn’t that silly?  I cried about what they represented to Ryan and me.  I cried about how I could have done better for them.  I cried about how stupid it felt to be so deeply moved by two goldfish, and how much a 38 year old could miss an 8 year old boy who’d moved away, leaving only his fish (and a pair of pajamas he’d forgotten) for us to remember him by.

So I came home and I scooped those bloated, bug-eyed fish into a used coffee filter with some coffee grounds still in it.  I wanted something that was biodegradable.  It felt right.  Whatever.

I couldn’t find a shovel.  Didn’t want to ask a neighbor for one. How do you explain what you’re doing?  You know?  Or why you’re crying?  Or if that’s even why you’re crying to begin with? So I found a camping stake for a tent we don’t even have any more and I used that to move the soil.  It was so much easier than I thought.  Healing, too. Damp soil.  Who knew?  It feels good.  And I buried those tiny beings’ bodies in my favorite spot in the yard.  Right under our dog Colby’s tree.  The spot, in fact, where we took our last photo of Colby before we took him in to be put down.  That spot was so right for the burial.

And it didn’t seem complete, this humble little resting place for Noah & Ryan’s last living connection, without something to mark it.  The mound of fresh soil would soon enough be covered over with grass.  And so I made a cross out of sticks and a twist tie.  And I hope Noah is okay with a cross.  It’s the only thing I could think of.  Cause I was not about to check Amazon for tiny fish headstones or any such nonsense.

So thank you to the fish, and to Ryan, and Noah, and Noah’s mom, for giving me this chance to reflect and focus on our time together.  I hope that Noah and Ryan will understand how much these little tiny fish mattered.  I do.  We all matter.  A lot.

And when I take the time to capture a moment – whether it’s the death of a fish, my dad’s hands, or a young boy’s brand new car, well, it’s just my way of marking it.  Of remembering that that moment, regardless of how huge it was in the grand scheme of things, it mattered.  And the people, or dogs, or fish, or trees that I captured?  They mattered too.

Capturing what matters.  I love doing that.  I really, really do.

Colby, getting his last Ryan kisses, under his favorite tree in our yard.

com·mun·ion

1. The sharing or exchanging of intimate thoughts and feelings, esp. when the exchange is on a mental or spiritual level.
2. Common participation in a mental or emotional experience.

Communion.  Wow.  Communion.

Every spring, I’ve wondered what it is about these First Holy Communion mini shoots that makes them feel so, well, divine.  I thought maybe it was the golden light, the flowering trees, or the specialness of this event in a child’s life.  But it is so much more than all of this. And I thought, too, about how, when I was a kid, Communion photos were taken by a department store photographer, against a fake blue backdrop. And I wondered why, for me, that didn’t feel right.

As we work, I hear stories of a mother’s Communion medal from 1976, rosary beads that were a precious gift, Bibles that have been in the family for generations.  Dad’s tie pin.  Mom’s wedding veil. A cousin in Ireleand whose granddad is definitely shining some light down on us.  Stories of children who were hard to conceive and born prematurely, and the parents watch as we shoot, amazed that their children are each old enough and strong enough to receive First Holy Communion. A few happy tears have been shed, for sure.  (Or maybe just tears of relief, or gratitude….)

This year, though, a theme kept repeating itself when I talked to clients, fellow photographers, and anyone who follows my work.  That theme is connection.  When my families and I come together for a shoot, as we work, I feel especially connected to them, they tend to feel connected to one another, we are connected to the nature that surrounds us, and our images seem to capture that.  For me, it is absolutely a spiritual exchange.  A shared emotional experience.  And so, when a simple Google search revealed the definition of communion above, I knew for sure that I was onto something.

It’s so simple, really.  

Camera +  Photographer +  Nicely Dressed Kid + Family + A Little Light from Above.  

Even in all its simplicity, I know for sure that whatever it is that we’re sharing here, it is most certainly much greater than the sum of its parts.

After such a short time – 20 magical minutes of connecting profoundly and shooting purposefully – I go home to begin editing editing our images. Here are a few from this season.

Sweet whispers

These sisters were adorable together, speaking of connection! <3

Overflowing with joy…

Behind the scenes connections can be just as magical as the posed stuff…or more!

These sisters were happy to join their brother for a sibling photo.

Prayerful.

Precious

So handsome!

Communion Bible

Mom’s gift to her son – an Irish tradition – all Communion boys where a white rosette on Communion Day.

Mom’s attention to detail makes for a beautiful moment.

This shoot took place after her actual day, so she was allowed to sit down in her dress. (Communion mini shoots can be done any time – not just on the actual day!)

Welcome to my blog, “Offshoots,” where I write about life through my lens.  To see my photography portfolio, please go directly to my website, EliseCampbellPhotography.com. Xo.

This image, to me, is  not a “say ‘cheese’” kind of moment. I try really hard not to demand fake smiles.  Don’t get me wrong: captured moments of bliss are magical.  And yet, even without a smile, this image pulls me right in.  It makes me feel whole, like I’ve nailed it.  In photography, you capture the whole moment, whatever it is.  Although stories have many interpretations, it’s hard, in photography, to tell only part of the story.  The captured moment – all of it – is right there – for us to hold.  All of it. Here, it’s the unsureness. The questioning. The wondering.  All of it.

Holding On in the New Year 

My first few hours of 2013 began just like all the the others for me – -  In the state of extremes:

“I am fat.

By February 11^th, I will lose the 20 pounds that I’ve almost intentionally manifested.

I need to learn studio lighting.

All month, I will spend 4 hours a day studying and practicing.  Cause, clearly, I suck at everything.”

(I could go on and on, but it gets increasingly painful to reveal that kind of stuff, and I choose not to participate in that kind of Elise bashing right now.)

And then, I thought long and hard about my discomfort – and all of ours.  You know the things we never want to face?  Maybe those are exactly the things we need to face.  The thing is, I know for sure that without the pain, suffering, hard work, & stuff, we would never be able to fully enjoy the other stuff – the rewards, the joy, the grace. The only way for me to take the edge off of pain, loss, grief & stuff, is put up a protective wall, make safe choices, and not live fully.  And that’s painful anyway, right?  Or lonely, or something….  You’re not capturing all of it.  And so I’m choosing not to make 2013 all about extremes.  By extremes, I mean, paying attention to only one feeling, in one moment, and making a huge deal of it, instead of capturing the bigger picture.

Right now, in this moment, my goal for 2013, is this: Hold it.  All of it.  All at once, as much as I can.  I want to show up, in my purest Eliseishness. To show up with honesty, and to experience all of what I need to experience.  To live fully.  It’s this idea of holding it all.  I’m going to say it again:  Holding. It. All.  Life isn’t one isolated emotion or experience, right?  It’s not one big thrill, and if we’re always out seeking thrills, then, we’re probably spending a lot of time hurting over unmet expectations. And life is certainly not one big success, either.  At least not in my experience.

So, if I’m going to add my own delusional story to any given moment, I may as well hold the other side of that story too.  Hold all of it.  I mean, I should probably just allow everything to flow through me – not making any meaning to it, or having any attachments to the outcomes – but until I’m ready to do that, maybe holding all of it is the next best step.

So, what I’m hoping for me, and what I wish for you, is that you hold all of it, in any given moment, and accept the joy and the pain together. (If that is what works for you.) Hold it in your heart.  Your soul.  All at once. It’s okay to be thrilled to have something AND be afraid to lose it.  It’s probably better than holding on to it so tightly that it’s only with you because you’re forcing it to be.

Hold the warm glow of sunlight on your face, and on your upturned palms, while holding on to the knowing that it has rained, and that it will rain again.

Hold the pain of missing someone, while also holding on to the love that you once knew.

Hold on to staring at your phone, waiting for a call, while also knowing you don’t need that call to make you whole, or to give you answers.  They’re already there.

Hold on to your shame, knowing that again you will hold your head high.

Hold the smell of your newborn’s head, knowing this moment won’t last.

Hold on to how it feels to wear your skinny jeans, remembering that the scales have tipped the other way too.

Hold on to your unmet expectations, and remember how good the fantasy seemed.

Hold on to homesickness.   Whatever you’re homesick for, I’m pretty sure that whatever it is, it’s homesick for you too.  It’s on its way to you.  Or maybe you’re on your way.

Hold on to real hugs, the kind where neither one of you wants to let go.  (Are you the one who usually releases the hug first? Or do you hold on?)  While you’re holding on to the tight hug, also remember the last time your arms ached from loneliness.

Hold on to feeling deep, indescribable love, knowing it may not always be this easy to recognize.  It’s always there, but sometimes you don’t get to pick the form in which it comes.

Hold on to the feeling of your Emmy Award, or trophy, or bonus paycheck, or being Mother of the Year, even months or years later when you screw up.

Hold on to the overcast skies, remembering the warmest reddish purplish sunsets you’ve ever experienced.

Hold on to having no place to go, and remember your magical mosquito-bitten evenings at the cottage on the lake.

Hold on to the pain of losing the big game, and hold on to how it felt when you actually won.

Hold on to the angst of being judged, while remembering how it felt when in those warm moments when you were profoundly understood.

Hold on to the grace of forgiveness, while at the same time, embracing your guilt.

Hold on to your purest self, while letting go of all of the labels that have been stapled to your forehead. (You probably stapled them there yourself, anyway.)

Hold on to your family, even if you’re not holding them in the way you expected to be holding them.

Hold on to love, while releasing every last bit of fear.

Hold it.  All of it.

That feels so good to write.  I love it.  All of it.  Even the bad stuff.  Maybe holding it all means loving it all.  Even if we don’t particularly like it. Maybe it means embracing it anyway.

Love comes, I am sure, in many forms.  Sometimes the depth of love is more important than the type of love.  Hold on tight to the warmth of a beautiful love – any beautiful love – that surrounds you, while doing nothing but allowing it to be.  Don’t waste energy defining it or labeling it.  Just hold it instead.

Yeah.  That may be it right there.  Hold on to all of it.  Capture the whole moment.  And surround all of it with love.  Xo.

Sometimes…

Sometimes, you have to let go of searching for the perfect location.

Sometimes, you have to let your tiny subject take your hand in hers.

Sometimes you have to follow her lead, and climb with her, to her favorite secret spot.

And sometimes, when she sits there, the photo begs you to capture it.

Sometimes, sisters actually do hug because they feel like it.

Sometimes, beauty appears in not-so-perfect light, and you capture it anyway.

Sometimes, the most perfect, natural smile comes over her, especially when you don’t say, “Say cheeeeese!”

Sometimes, even furbabies want to be included.

Sometimes, only sometimes,  you just let go, and you back up,

and sometimes they forget you’re even there, and they sing, and they dance, and they laugh,

and that’s when the  m a g i c  happens.

And sometimes, but only sometimes, you also capture the portrait that you had envisioned all along, and you know, in your heart, that you could have gotten that shot from the beginning…

…but if you did, you would have missed out on some of the magic along the way.

To see more of my work, or to book a session, please visit my website, EliseCampbellPhotography.com.

Welcome to my blog, “Offshoots,” where I write about life from the other side of the lens, and sprinkle a few of my images here & there.  To see my photography, please go to my website:  EliseCampbellPhotography.com

dear abby jeanne,

i have this assignment. it’s for a project i’m working on.  i have to write a letter to someone from the list of the people i love.  i chose to write to you, abby.  you are the love of my life.  one of them, for sure.  but i think i chose to write to you because, well, you’re 3.  and you’re so pure and beautiful and deep. you are expressive and sensitive. my wish is to raise you in such a way that you never feel like you have to tear yourself away from yourself.  that’s kinda hard to understand, huh, baby girl?  so what i mean, is that, i want you to do stuff based on what your heart tells you to do.  and to feel like you always belong, even if you’re all by yourself.  because you’re perfect. exactly as you are, you are perfect, and you always will be.  you were created by God.  you are love. and love is perfect.

so abby jeanne, remember, it’s okay when the things you do, and how you feel, aren’t perfect.  it’s really okay.

it’s okay to have sticky hands because you were so excited to start playing after breakfast that you accidentally forgot to wash them.

it’s okay to wear mismatched shoes because you love them…

…and it’s okay that they’re too big…

…and on the wrong feet.

it’s okay to have stains on your dress because you were painting with your mimi.

it’s okay to feel bad for the broken trees, as you always do.

it’s okay to hug the trees, too. they are alive, and they have energy, just like you.

it’s okay to play among the trees when there’s a playground full of children 10 feet away from you.

it’s okay to wear a tutu one day, and tree-climbing overalls the next.

it’s okay to have messy hair because you’re so busy looking inside of yourself that you forgot to check the mirror.

it’s okay to accept your outer beauty, too, though.

it’s okay if you don’t get a gold star on your paper.

a 75% is a fine grade if you did your best.

a 75% is also a fine grade if you were keeping sweet margie, across the street, company for a few hours when you “should have” been studying.

it’s all okay, abby.  i saw you, the other day, when  you were kinda unsure of yourself.  you saw a teenager at work by the beach, who was sitting on the ground, resting her face in her hands.  you said, “she looks sad, mommy.  i need to talk to her.”  you tried to grab ryan’s  hand to go with you.  you tried to grab madeline’s hand, too.  they were too shy.  so you took a deep breath, and walked over to her. you talked to her, abby, and she smiled.  a lot. her name was jenna.  you have no idea how you can impact other people, abby.  no idea.  even you, in your tiny body, with your toddler belly sticking out from under your ruffly bathing suit top.

so, i’m supposed to write this myself, but i have to cheat a little.  there’s this poem that i love. it’s by Mary Oliver.  some day, when you’re older, i hope you read all of her stuff.  and Thoreau’s too.  and Maya Angelou, and well,  i could go on and on…..

Here’s Wild Geese (and knowing how you love birds, and how you still search for Phil from time to time, i find this even more perfect for you….)

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese,

harsh and exciting — over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

here’s a video of you, abby.  you decided, out of nowhere, to find a lost bird, whose name is phil.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q51WLKjLg6w

so…there it is…my love note.

i love you, abby.

love,

mom

Welcome to my blog, “Offshoots,” where I write about life from the other side of the lens, and sprinkle a few of my images in there.  To see my photography, please go to my website:  EliseCampbellPhotography.com

In case you haven’t noticed this about me, I’m pretty sure I’m an empath.  It hit me, like a ton of bricks, when I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep during my worst school year EVER – 2nd grade.  I was riddled with anxiety – not just an uneasy feeling – I’m talking about clinical anxiety. Like, I turned gray the whole year and my mom even took me to a cardiologist because my chest ached so fiercely I thought I would drop dead.

So there I was in bed, when I was zapped with emotion about certain people’s physical and mental well-being, and my 7-year-old self didn’t know how to take it. I ran to my mom, crying.    ”I don’t know what to do.” I said, between heaving sobs.  ”Why do I see out of my own eyes?  Why do I feel what I feel? Why did God make me me?  It hurts.  It hurts, mom!  My chest hurts.” (Mom, do you remember that night?)  That may have been one of the last times I spoke of it.

My poor mom.  Can you imagine having a child come to you with this?

For a long time, knowing things, and feeling an underlying current about somebody, or feeling their pain, was too scary and exhausting, so I pushed it way down deep, and avoided deep and meaningful connections.  It was too much to bear.  And it hurt, physically, too.

Being an empath made me feel like a pale weenie – weak & vulnerable & powerless.  Like it was my crappy lot in life to feel too deeply.  Something was definitely wrong with me.  I was different. Reeeeeally different. Kids pulled the wings off of fireflies, and I cried.  So much for a carefree summer evening in the neighborhood.

I tried to be compassionate, but I didn’t fully commit to compassion.  What  I’m learning now, though, is that you really kinda have to jump into compassion with two feet.  I used to tiptoe around compassion.  Like, when it wasn’t my turn to be picked on, I would stand way back watch a group of people pick on somebody, and then when the bashing had been completed, I’d sneak over to that kid and then I’d see if I could offer some kindness.  Not only was it wrong to allow the bashing to take place, but it was bad for me too, because I felt every emotional or physical jab, punch, shove and kick in the teeth.  (Which reminds me that I was even spat upon once.)

So, now I realize, after 38 years, that empathy + compassion = power. And the right kind of power is good.  That love and fear are opposites.  That I can’t come from a place of fear and exhibit love, and that having the courage to step in and help is a choice.  ”Having the courage” sounds too passive. It’s more like summoning the courage, I think.

The thing is, there are extremists out there who commit fully to hate.  They believe so fully in it that they’re willing to wear a bombs strapped to their waists and die just so they can kill other people too.  Full-on, no holds barred HATE.  There is no tip-toeing. THAT is a commitment.  So if there are people who are THAT committed to hate, where are the people who are equally committed to love?  There HAS to be some strength in that, right?  And I’m not talking about the people who wear flowers in their hair and talk about making love; not war, although I love them too, but I’m talking about the people who actively and courageously love everyone who crosses their paths – especially the hard-to-loves. (I’m working really super hard on that one.)

Sometimes, I envision the most compassionate people as big piles of warm, sensitive mush, and I like warm, sensitive mush. What I fail to remember, though, is that compassionate people have to be incredibly courageous. Almost always, compassion requires us to stand up, take a hard stance, and buck the tide.  Love extremists. LOL.  How could I be one of those?  I’m already not quite a mainstream soccer mom. U know? But how could my kids be those love extremists if they wanted to? What would that look like at school, and on the playground?  I love the idea, but I’m not sure what it would look like here, in suburbia.  (Do I have to move to a little cabin in the woods, without plumbing, to live like this?  Don’t challenge me.  Cause I totally would.)  And maybe right here is where it is needed the most.

This morning, my middle guy Ryan woke me up at 6 so we could walk our dog to the local dog park, and back home through the woods.  I love my walks with Ryan. They are so tender, pure and honest.  (<—-Oh, dear…I feel a separate blog coming on….)  The ideas of empathy and compassion were tugging at my heart, as Ryan and I walked side by side, with our long shadows before us.  The more that Ryan talked and thought and shared, the more I could feel this blog start building up and bubbling over.  I just didn’t have any direction for it yet.

Us. Taken with my iPhone. 6:44 this morning.

Then, more than halfway home, we stopped because Ryan’s little legs were tired. I checked my Facebook from my phone, and my cousin Joan, a beacon of light and beauty and strength, well, she sent me this article, from The Huffington Post, by Glennon Melton, one of my favorite writers there.  Here it is: The Talk.  It’s a guiding letter to her son as he goes back to school.  I love it.  I absolutely love it.  Tears, goosebumps, the whole nine yards. Her message feels like my message, except it’s written with so much more beauty and clarity.  In it, she teaches her son, and shows me, how radical, extreme love and compassion can be demonstrated in the classroom. And really, it’s not radical at all.  Or extreme. It’s just a choice to be a courageous human. And it teaches Chase to see his classmates as gifts from God who are to be treated as such. I would pay a million dollars, if I had it, for my kids to go to school with her son Chase. And yet, there are lots of Chases everywhere, especially if parents would simply share Glennon’s letter with their own children as part of a back-to-school ritual.  Maybe we can shorten back-to-school shopping by 45 minutes and sit down with our kids and read The Talk with them instead.

I hope to raise 3 Chases.  I know they’ll slip up and hurt people’s feelings. Shoot, I still do.  :(  But I hope that when they do, they’ll come to me and tell me so we can learn and grow together, and then get back to some extreme, radical loving.  There is work to be done, and now, I can’t wait to send them off to school to meet the new gifts that have been presented to them.

Blessings to my children, and your children. May the work we do at home with them be reflected, at least a little, in how they value every single soul, in every single school building, every single day, for the next 100 years.  (And may we, and they, share and grow from the lapses in loving behavior, because, goodness knows, we all have those kinda lapses.)

Happy (almost) Back to School!  xo

A quick iPhone snap of my Ry Guy this morning….

Welcome to my blog, “Offshoots,” where I write about life from the other side of the lens, and sprinkle a few of my images here & there.  To see my photography, please go to my website:  EliseCampbellPhotography.com

How fitting is it that today, I photographed these sweet parents, with their beautiful baby girls, only a few hours after I saw my friend’s baby girl off to college?

Today was a big day.  Huge, really.  My dear friend – well, my soul sister, really – she and her husband packed up their car and drove their baby girl off to college at 10:30 this morning.  They raised this beautiful, wholesome, bubbly, genuine soul who could brighten anyone’s day with a word or a smile.  She has a bright-eyed, freckly-faced innocence about her that only adds to her striking gorgeousness.  She is kind, loving, and  hard working.  She is, for sure, one in a million. She is simple and down to earth, and yet she is powerful beyond description.

I feel for  her, my friend.  I remember when my first daughter, Madeline, was an infant, and it was time to move her from the co-sleeper in my room to her huge, lonely crib down the hall.  I cried my eyes out, because I believed this was the first step in distancing her from me (for her sake), even if it killed me.  I turned to my husband and said, “I can’t even put her in her own room to sleep.  How am I ever going to send  her off to college?”  He laughed at me, the blubbering fool that I was. But here I am, and Madeline’s time with me is half over.  It was 9 years since I moved her to her crib, and it’ll be 9 years till I send her off to college.  So I guess experiencing this with my pseudo daughter first – the daughter I get to enjoy without having had to do the work of raising her – well, it has big lessons here for me.

Knowing how my friend is feeling about this, and living through the last few days of scrambling for odds and ends that her baby girl may possibly need when she is without her mama, I feel almost like I’m sending one of my own babies off into the world.   And it feels really bittersweet.  I’m so proud of who this young lady is, and tearfully grateful that the world gets to embrace her now.  But in these days leading up to the big send off, I’ve wanted to pull my friend’s daughter aside every chance I could, and smother her with words of wisdom.  Truly, though, I have none. Already, she is a wiser being than I am.  I feel like I want to tell her so many things, but only so that I’ll feel better.

I stayed up until 4:00AM last night, writing her a letter.  But then I tore it up.  What good would it do? How do I tell a young girl that this is the time in her life when she has to remember to stay true to herself?  How do I tell her, without embarrassing myself,  about all the stupid and dangerous positions I put myself in?    How do I tell her that, in college, I lost sight of my pure Eliseishness and ran from who I was so I could fit in and please people?  How do I tell her to say “no” to whatever doesn’t sit right with her soul?  How do I tell her to call her mother every night…every.single.night?  How do I tell her that her inner and outer beauty radiate so brilliantly that she may need to be careful about who she allows into her life?  How do I tell  her that her mom really does want all that is good for her?  How do I tell her that the right people will come to her when the time is right?  How do I tell her that she doesn’t EVER have to try to impress anyone?  How do I tell her that the pain of a loss hurts a tiny bit forever?  And what about making sure she doesn’t eat too late at night, drink too much, or walk home alone from parties?  How do I tell her it’s easier to keep up with her studies all along, than it is to cram for finals?

I don’t.  I don’t tell her any of it.  Not with the seriousness that I feel about it.  If she opens up, and shares herself with me, I definitely share my ideas.  And I hope I do it gently.  But the bottom line is this:  her own mom and dad have been telling her this, in their own way, for the past 18 years and 81 days.  She is who she is – perfectly kind and innocent and beautiful – because of that.  So I guess my desire to hold on, and tell her everything I wished for her, well, that’s my own selfishness coming out.  It’s my own concern about releasing her to this crazy world.  But the world needs her.  (Our neighborhood needs her too.  Don’t get me wrong.)  Cause out there, it’s a big world, and there is important work to be done.  And so I do.  I release her.  No more lectures from me. Only love and support if she comes to me for it.  (And until then, I’ll keep photographing tiny baby girls, like the ones below, and I’ll imagine that they can stay with their moms & dads forever & ever & ever.)

And besides, she’s coming home for Labor Day in 9 days.

P.S.  Thank you, friend, and friend’s daughter, for opening yourselves up and welcoming me in to this experience.

THIS IS MY BLOG.  TO SEE MORE OF MY WORK, PLEASE GO TO MY ACTUAL WEBSITE:

Elise Campbell Photography.com

Thanks, everyone, for the fun last night. It was a true blessing to work with each and every one of you, and to share what I love.  I’ll see you on our private tutorial board. 

Thanks to my mom, Laura, for watching my littler ones, Madeline for modeling, to Emily for the photos & video, and to Kevin MacLeod, for sharing his gift of music (royalty free).

(Thank you, Bone Sigh Arts, for this wonderful honor. It’s healing, for sure, to have been selected and recognized by you.)

It sure feels like I’ve faced a ton of rejection in my life.  When I look back, though, there are only a handful of serious rejections.  I guess it feels like so much more because the rejections were pretty serious. Or maybe, it’s just because I am to-the-core sensitive.  No joke.  SEN-SI-TIVE.  Or maybe, it’s all the inner turmoil and self rejection that, until pretty recently, was a part of  me. And its ok that it was there. Really. My photos and my words and my compassion, well, they started growing inside me every time I faced a rejection.  And I’m grateful for that.

I haven’t faced too many rejections lately, though.  Not the big-time, earth shattering ones.  But the reason is pretty simple.  A long time ago, I learned not to take risks.  I learned to make the safe choices.  (When I first got to college, I blew my “emergency money” on a  camera. (Sorry mom & dad.)   I knew I loved photography even then, but I’d already told everyone I was going to teach, and besides, I hadn’t even taken a photography course in high school!  So I put the camera on AUTO and eventually stored it away under my extra long twin bed.)

So anyway, at some point, I’d learned to get a good read of what everyone else thought before I made a decision.  Following my heart was too risky.  So I latched on to the first safe choice, and stuck with it.  There were times when my heart tugged me in other directions, but I learned, a long time ago, to quiet that inner voice and do what was expected. And these expectations didn’t come from one person. You know?  It wasn’t my parents, or most of my teachers or anything, it’s just how it was.  In my sensitive younger days, I followed my heart and made a fool of myself and was rejected over, and over, and over again.  I guess that’s how I learned to do what was expected.

I remember one time, when I was in 5th Grade, I was helping to make scenery for our school play, Flight International. I was bubbling over with enthusiasm.  Honored to be there, and excited to help, I was probably loud and annoying.  My sister Emily’s 3rd grade teacher was there.  I remember her name and how to spell it (and it was tricky), but I won’t share it here.  As I was talking to a friend and painting the blue sky background, that 3rd grade teacher, well, she came up to me, and she said, “Could you just be quiet for one second?  You haven’t shut up the whole time we’ve been here.” I’d had indications of my too-muchness before, but it was just kinda who I was.  And in that very moment, in the spring of 5th grade, as a ten-year old girl, I learned to stop being me.  There are ways to conduct oneself, so as not to upset people, I realized, and I’d better straighten up.  I flipped a switch and I turned off my too-muchness to the best of my ability.  It definitely bubbled over to the surface from time to time, but for the most part, I learned right then and there to hold back my enthusiasm.  (I also held back my tears that day.  Man, I couldn’t wait for my mom to come pick me up so I could fall apart in the car!)

Anyway, the more I focused on my photography, and rehabilitating my dog, and reuniting with my soul, the more I realized that my sensitivity was a gift, and that if I wasn’t vulnerable, I wasn’t living, really.  And I didn’t want to miss out on any more of my life.  So, I put myself out there and  allowed myself to love deeply, and to take risks.  New friends came into my life.  Old friends came back and met the real me for the first time.  My 11th Grade Language Arts teacher, Mrs. Gilbert, said to me, “Elise, never lose the sensitivity you possess.”  She also told me I was a piece of work.  How cool is that?  My too-muchness had snuck out somewhere between reading  Jerzy Kosinski and  Chaucer, and that was A-OK with her. Pretty cool. (But then I tucked that too-muchness away again for a long time – so as not to offend.)

So now that I’m allowing my too-muchness to reveal herself when she’s supposed to, and now that I’ve knocked down some walls and risen above others, I get to experience life from the other side of things, and the rejections feel dwarfed, and the acceptance just seems to find me.  (When I get hurt, my pain runs deep, though – deeper than ever, maybe…there’s no getting around that.)

And it’s not like I crave acceptance any more.  I used to want it from anyone, anywhere.  But now, I’m pretty picky. I do what my heart and my Spirit tell me, and let the people who are frightened or annoyed by that fall to the wayside. So when Terri St. Cloud asked if she could feature me as Bone Sigh Art’s Wonderful Person for the month, I was touched.  Terri’s art, and Terri’s words, well, they simply sing to my soul.  Experiencing her work is like being welcomed into her world.  She shares all of who she is, and it’s all beautiful. Check out Terri’s work at BoneSighArts.com, or click here to see her Facebook fan page, or click here to see this month’s  Wonderful Person (me).  It’s pretty weird to wrap my brain around the “Wonderful Person” title and accept it, but I will.  You know why?  Cause being accepted for my art, and my writing, and for WHO I AM, by someone whose soul seems to emanate all things good, well, that’s the kind of acceptance that matters most. So, it is with gratitude, and without guilt, that I will allow myself to feel wonderful in this moment.   Check out  last month’s Wonderful Person, Debbie Schwarz!  It’s quite humbling to follow her – that’s for sure!

(P.S. I was going to apologize for the length of this post, or maybe try to shorten it, but then I realized that once again, I’d be squelching my too-muchness, and that would be pretty silly at this point.)