I can see that it is easy for me
to sit on my brightly coloured chairs
with my morning mug of coffee
and full belly
surrounded by nothing that doesn't resemble peace
and acceptance
and love
There are no bombs here
no angry shouts
no fear in what the next moment will bring
No trucks plowing down crowded streets
or government imposing curfew's on cities
no poisoned waters
or heavy boots treading on sacred sites

I can see that it is easy for me
to use my body - naked or clothed -
in ways that are seen as art
there are no patriarchs to fear here
no brothers who lie waiting for the opportunity to strangle
no fathers or uncles or sons
who view equality as a sin
and murder as honour

I can see that it is easy for me
to send my fair haired boys to school
or to camp
down the street to the corner store
or into the world on their own
and believe them to be safe
(depending of course, on who they decide to love)
We are not the minority here
we get to grow up with assumptions
like all are equal
if you work hard you will succeed
good things come to good people
we get the safety net of believing that life is mostly fair
a privilege
belonging only to the privileged

I can see that it is easy for me
but that doesn't mean my heart is not broken too
that I don't want to rise up against the pervading sadness
stand up
fight
rage
weep
Somehow use the easiness of my life
to relieve the harshness of yours

It is not easy for me to see
how broken
our world can be

I am adding my voice to the protest song

I am not even inclined

to avian persuasions

and yet I find the deep drum

of the ruffed grouse's mating call

sexy

The way you feel it,

first on the soles of your leather wrapped feet

then deep in the walls of your wool wrapped chest,

more than you ever can

audibly hear it

It's no wonder the girls

(those avian ones of course)

find it irresistible

the ultimate masculine

beating of the chest

Who doesn't want to feel

the vibration of life

ringing in their heart?

Hal & Dianne

They have asked me to take photos of their life as it is now,
the story of a life drawing near to it's end,
the story of taking each day as it comes,
the story of laughter,
the story of sorrow.

I struggle with this role I have been asked to play, the questions it calls forth.
Not just this time, but any time I am asked to pick up my camera.
If taking photos is an opportunity to show others how you see the world,
what happens if how you see it,
is not how the people you are photographing are experiencing it?
How does an outsider capture the inner workings of a life so long in the making?
How do I honour a life and a love not my own?

I am struck, so often, by the juxtaposition of life.
The uniqueness of our individual lives and the days that we each hold in our memories,
married to the universal truths of this human existence.
Every house I drive by and every person I meet contain their own story,
It is - simply, complexly, and containing all the clichés this often jaded world will try to throw at us,
the story of love.

I am tied to this particular story in intricate varied ways.
This man delivered my son with gentle hands and a voice that I can still here,
"you are doing great"
at moments that I feel the opposite is true.
He was a cheerleader on the sidelines of my 365 project, his words and affirmations about my photos
helped pull me forward to where I am today.
The love of these two people produced a daughter, who grew to be a woman my brother fell in love with, who has given birth to another daughter who carries forward our family line.
Every person who walks through these doors of this house that they live in,
seems connected in some way to every other one,
and the beautiful web of a community worth treasuring is evident in every moment.

This is the way I see it.
I am here to witness love; unapologetically and enthusiastically.
In as many of its fascinating, dirty, heartbreaking, beautiful and awe inspiring ways that I can.
I am here to capture and honour the uniqueness of this particular story,
and to share with you the vast expanse of the ties that bind us.

To read Hal's side of the story, you have find him here:
www.halirvine.blogspot.ca

Part 1

When we were little

we were told to go play

which never really seemed to be a problem

when surrounded by cousins

But still

there's something about being excluded

that fascinates

especially as children

when it involves our mothers.

And so it would be

that as we played

childhood games of hide and seek

tireless monopoly

and treasure hunts

our soundtrack became the sound of them

in the kitchen

the soprano of their voices

punctuated

by the staccato of their laughter

in what seemed like endless joy between them

and we the knew the sound that love made

She is gone now

the sister of my mother

fading into vague memories as the days pass

with out her

sitting at the table with my mother

Part 2

We live in a house with straw walls

solid

thick

warm

The wind can howl and rage outside

but this house stands still

Inside

as if to rebel

the ceilings and floors between bedrooms

let sounds and light pass through

The comings and goings of the four who live here

and those that visit too

are never secret

It is a recipe for interrupted intimacy

and recognition of an individual by sound of breath alone

The instant knowing when things are awry

or something is new

I like to think it is a gift I'll give my sons

That the soundtrack of their childhood will be

the deep avalanche timber of my loves voice

alongside the higher melody of mine

and the staccato sound of our laughter

like endless joy between us

and they will know the sound

that love makes