Some people see what you are doing and get all excited. “No!” they tell you.  “Stop.”  “That’s not worth bothering with.”

Some people see what you are doing and get all excited.  “Yes!” they tell you.  “Keep going.”  “What will happen next?”

The “No” people claim the “Yes” people are soft hearted panderers – dishonest, unsophisticated and undiscriminating.  For “No” people, things have to be Good, or they are Worthless.

But you’ll never make anything that way.  And for sure, you’ll never hear from your own fragile voice – the one that is longing most for your love and attention.  And guaranteed, you will break someone’s heart – especially your own – with “No, No, No.”

“Yes” people know they hold your hope in their hands.  They don’t simply want to avoid disappointing you.  They actually don’t see the point in feeling sad about what you’ve  made.  A lot of things can get created this way.  And if your heart gets broken eventually, at least you learned how happy you could feel, following imagination wherever it leads.

Who gets to say which pictures matter?

Tuesday was a big day for me.  Five very nice ladies met with me to test out the material for a class I have been dreaming of teaching – ways to use still life photography for personal reflection and journal keeping.  Our setting was the amazing art retreat center near Verona – Whispering Woodlands.  I learned so much from the participants!  They showed me how foreign and confusing the controls on their digital cameras can be, and also how exciting and new the potential of using their everyday possessions would be as they learned more about photography.

I made sure to do the same exercise I challenged my students to try.  Before everyone arrived I wandered around taking pictures of things that caught my eye in the cozy, light filled space.  Frankly, it is still a mystery to me what makes an image meaningful.  I guess it is more about a feeling than visual appearance.  This leads me to take a lot of pictures that may not look good to other people.  Nonetheless, I continue carving away to find my own voice, even at the risk of repeating myself.

People are drawn to photography for a lot of reasons, but I think everyone who came to the class wants more than anything to have a record of who (and what) they love in their lives.  This is an inspiring place to create from.  It brings what is most original about us right to the surface – our personal loves and losses.  To me, that is what makes it worthwhile to face all the pictures that I don’t like, or all the days that I don’t feel like scratching the surface to find an honest, vulnerable moment to make an image.  I am hoping that through my photographs, people will see and know the love I feel for this world, and for them.  So in the end, if it is only the people who love me who say they love these images, that will be more than enough.

I suppose you won’t mind another big fat juicy peony.  Only its just that tomorrow I am doing something special, and I have to get ready.  And last week was rawther dreadful.  Let’s keep up the peonies for now, okay?  I will tell you about tomorrow…tomorrow!

I tell myself I can’t write tonight

because my feet hurt from the concrete back and forth,
because my mind is tired from smiling at boredom
(and by the way 4:30 a.m.),
because I don’t know what to say without saying what I feel,

but the true reason is, I don’t think
you will like my story.

High above my head, through the open window, I can hear a kitchen conversation.  The kind ladies have when children are sent outside to play.  The kind children are not meant to hear.  Two voices, so much alike, I don’t know which one is Mama and which one is Aunt.  It seems like they are talking about me.   Two voices say:

“Mmm-hmmm, Pinny’s beautiful!”
“Yes, so pink and perfect.”

I am standing beneath the kitchen window, on the side of our house where a concrete walk passes from the front to the backyard.  A day or two ago, along this sidewalk where we scribble hopscotch trails, bushes of plain green leaves crowded against the whiteness of the house.  Now, out of nowhere, flowers the color of strawberry ice cream have appeared as magically as fairy skirts, making the green leaves beautiful.  The sudden conjuring has puzzled me.

In their kitchen voices, my mama and her sister explain what made the flowers appear.  They give the flowers a name – my name – Penny.  Clearly, the beautifulness is meant for me.

Around the corner, in the hot, sunny backyard, my teenager cousins push my twin sister on our swing.  Its creaking metal sing-songs, and someone yells, “I dunno, Pammy, are you sure you want to go hiiii-gher?  Hiiiii-gher?”  I am alone, next to the flowers.  Their petals are alive, like feathers or fur, and they can feel my fingers touch them.  Even in the hot sun, they are cool and soft, like the water in the sink when I helped to wash cherries for dessert.

“Pinny!  What are you doing!?  Leave the Pinny’s alone!”  My mama’s face hides behind the grey shadow of the screen, but through the criss cross metal I can see her red lipstick, and the two white teardrops she always wears to frame her eyes.

“But you said… you said…they’re Pinny’s, they’re mine!  They’re mine!”  I defend my beautiful territory with tears and indignation.  “You said!”  Mama turns her white shoulder, her black hair, to the mesh of the screen.  Mama is saying something to Aunt.  For a second the window is quiet.  Then I hear laughing, and next, the springs of the backdoor.  Mama is coming to take us inside for hot dogs.  Aunt is in the window now.  “Huh-ney, its Pee-oh-neez, not Pinny’s.”   Her voice is gentle, creamy, but I am still crying.  I want them.  Want them so much.  Want to be pee-oh-neez.

It’s just for prettiness, this peony.  It was balanced on its stem, but tipped over as I took the picture.  Sometimes it is only by accident that you see beyond what you were thinking was there, to a place more real.

The peonies deserve to have their say.  I owe them that.  I mean, what would you do if, for instance, the house next door was no longer inhabited, and the city had bought it, and planned to pave over the peonies for a parking lot?  Sometimes, you have to take matters into your own hands.  Especially when what matters is peonies.

Well, you know, I’m really just hoping you will say you like the picture.  The rest of this is just flirting.