The difference between boys and girls

"Contemplative Girl"

"Princess"

"Man with Corndog"

More B&W pictures

"Sea Scratches"

"Firm Footing"

"Breathe"

Pictures of people whose stories I'd love to hear

"Catch me if you can"

"Mardi Gras Man"

"Queen of the Manhole"

Still tired, more contest photos

"Spent Dancer"

"Deep-Eyed Girl"

"Flying Dancer"

More B&W contest entries. I have a biology exam tomorrow. Please pray for me.

Tired today, Pictures for you.

"Open Sky"

"To Narnia"

"And you'll never believe what she said..."

These are a few of my black and whites. One was taken at the wedding of a friend, the other two at Mardi Gras in New Orleans last year. They were recently submitted to a MUW literary magazine, maybe one will get in.

Story of hope

Last night I went on a work assignment to take pictures of people who were going to see the African Children's Choir.

I had been planning to take the photos and scat before the show started, but I ended up being asked by my boss to stay at least until intermission to take a feature photo for her.

I entered the show and was thrilled. While I've never been a huge fan of African tribal music, I had so much fun watching those kids perform, no - play, on stage. While those kids were laughing, singing and playing onstage, while one little boy sang "I don't know what I am meant to be, it really isn't clear to me," a light lit in my heart.

I walked in thinking I wouldn't have anything in common with these kids. That I would enjoy a new cultural experience... one that had very little to do with me at all.

But I'm exactly the same as that little boy. I have no idea where God wants me to be. But as the chorus rose "We have hope, He gives us hope." I felt better. I've been having a hard time lately. Not exactly starving children in Uganda hard, but we all have our own set of problems. One of mine is that I'm graduating in two months and I don't know what to do with my life.

Should I try to be a journalist, as much as it stresses me? Should I work for Girl Scouts -- but where could that journey go? I'm unsure, I'm a little afraid and I wish I could ask my Mom for advise. But if those children from one of the worst places and situations on the planet can just give it all to Him, what the hell am I waiting for? What is stopping me from anything? I haven't a clue where I'm going, but I have God's love; I have hope.

And that's good enough for me.

Goodbye Uncle

Dad didn't tell me when my uncle died. Whether he forgot,
thought he told me, or just thought I'd somehow know, I'm not quite sure.
But I didn't find out for months. I guess that's the price I pay
for not going home or checking up on people.

You assume they just keep living. And usually they do,
but not in Uncle Carl's case.
He was old, sick and weak, but that doesn't mean I expected it,
it doesn't mean I didn't care.

He hated children, but had a soft spot for me. I was obstinate,
wouldn't take no for an answer - even from him.
I think he liked that he didn't scare me, like he did my cousins.
I'd clomp into the empty front room he'd always sit in with his cats,
while the other adults drank and gossiped in the kitchen.
But he wouldn't have any part of that.

He'd just sit there on the couch, thinking.
He'd tell me to go away and play. I'd ignore him, climb onto his lap
and hand him a book. "Read to me." I'd state plainly. "No. Go away. Leave me be."
he'd reply. "Read to me please?" And I'd have won the battle that day.

He'd exhale sharply, making an annoyed, grunting noise.
"Fine," he'd finally say.
He never read with voices, never acted out the characters, wouldn't let me look
at the pictures, and when he was done, he'd kick me out.
Tell me to go play, "Leave an old man alone."
And that's the way it was. No hugs or kisses, no fawning over my blue eyes and blonde hair or mindless babble of how smart or pretty I was like the other adults.

But he always bought me fantastic books for my birthdays.
While my cousins got dresses and dollhouses from his wife,
Tolkien and Lewis littered my bookshelves because of him.

My dad didn't tell me when my uncle died.
No tears, no goodbyes.
Just a memory of the days he read to me.

Lost underwater

I feel lost, alone... and slightly itchy.

I know it's just the way life goes. Through our life's journey we go over hills, mountains, valleys and sometimes down through the deepest trenches of the earth. Now most of the world's deepest trenches are far below the earth in the deepest oceans, but hey - I'm SCUBA certified.

They taught us in SCUBA training that even the most experienced divers sometimes run out of air. That's when you have to make an emergency assent. It doesn't matter how far down from the surface you are, what else are you to do but try to get to the top before you run out of air.

There's a bright light at the surface, and nothing feels better than the moment where you kick that one last time, and the propulsion lifts you that last bit of distance - you bounce above the waves in the open, abundant of air. You're free.

But I feel like I keep kicking but can never reach the surface. There's an illusion below the water, you can never quite measure the distance with you eyes under there.

One more kick, then I'll be in the air.
Alright then, it must just be one more.

But I feel like I'm putting all the energy I have into each kick. There isn't any left for the next one if I don't break the surface.

This place, the water, is my favorite place on earth. I've always felt at home here, but that doesn't mean I can't drown.

But all hope is not lost. There is always the emergency assent. Just because I can drown, doesn't mean I won't swim.