Whitwell TN, paperclips and a plea from an 8 year old . . .

If you're not sure how these three things relate, please read on.  You may call me Oprah if you'd like, because I'm about to tell you about one of my favorite things.  My son reminded me of it Sunday night when he pleaded with everyone in our house (we had a Pop, a Baba and a Gigi visiting) that we stop what we were doing, sit down together and watch the movie, Paper Clips.

Usually an eight year old's plea to parents and grandparents doesn't involve a serious documentary film, but this one is different.  This film, this project, worked its way into Harry's heart when he first saw it and he can't let it go.  I admire him for it, and I thank him for the tenacity with which he hung on to get the family assembled to see it together.  

We were busy.  Folks were coming, folks were going, showers were starting, Sunday night was ending and the whole gang was tired from a wonderful weekend.  Harry got it in his mind, though, that we were long overdue at showing the movie to his grandparents.  He wasn't letting it go.  I watched as we all ran through the laundry list of reasons that late Sunday night wasn't the time to start something new. I heard my own voice reminding me that I was tired, that my children were exhausted, that we had put the grandparents through enough for one weekend.  No one was excited about the movie.  No one had it in them.  Harry wouldn't stop.  I saw the determination in his eyes.  I heard the urgency in his voice.  He took a shower with no nudging to ready himself for the cinema experience.  I began to realize that this was a time that the young shall lead us.  I began to know that we had to listen.   

A few years ago, my dear friend Dan, introduced me to the movie.  I'm glad he did.  We showed to a group of young folks and they were mesmerized.  One of them just brought it up to me recently and told me that she had never forgotten it.  Eight year old Harry has been the same.  He was curious about it, but we dragged our feet on letting him watch it.  I was afraid its subject matter was too hard.  I feared he wasn't ready to hear about the atrocities of the holocaust.  I didn't want him to hear how bad it had been - didn't want him to know that humans could be so horrible.  

We have our own copy now.  Sadly, I found it for a dollar at the bottom of a beat up bargain bin at an ailing video store.  Harry noticed it right away and continued to be curious about it.  He begged to see it, to know what it was about.  

It finally dawned on me that I couldn't keep my young son from evil any more than I could erase it from history.  My children will know about it, they will read about it in all its forms and they will be eye witnesses to things I cannot imagine.  I can't keep evil from creeping into their lives.  They can turn on the tv or log onto instagram and see things I hoped they'd never witness.  It's out there.  Maybe showing them what happens when people don't think for themselves is an important enough lesson to teach.

Perhaps, I thought, Harry should see it so we could all talk about it together.  I can't erase evil but I can tell my children what I think of it, I can tell them about how their ancestors felt and I can brainstorm with them ways to make things better.  My kids saw the movie; and I'm not exaggerating to say that they were transformed.  I watched their faces and I saw as they moved to another place in life.  I witnessed them graduating to a place of awareness.  Hopefully, they won't ever forget what they learned about what one person, or a small group of determined individuals can do.  Hopefully, they will remember.  

If you haven't been fortunate enough to see the movie, Paper Clips, I hope you will make it happen.  I hope you will learn about Whitwell, TN and the unlikely individuals that marked their little corner of the world forever.  I don't think you'll ever forget it.  The story of what happened in this little forgotten town will make you think.  Aside from being a beautiful example of incredible film-making, it will change you forever.  Grab a friend or a child, rent the movie and be astounded at courage and thinking outside the box and transformation.  I dare you.

Thanks, Harry, for making us slow down.  Thank you for demanding that we remember together how important it always is to practice thinking for ourselves and how lucky we are to live in a place where we can do just that.  

One little question . . . and a bunch of hope.

You know how it feels when you hear something and you know, somewhere deep inside, that you won't ever forget hearing it?  I had that experience yesterday, and I'm delighted about it.  It's a bit of a life changer, I do believe.

The last few weeks I've participated in a parent class/discussion at my kids' school.  It has been a good experience, with  meaningful conversations and much to consider when I leave the group.  I'm thankful and grateful to know that the folks around me are just guessing at this 'life' thing, too.  It feels better knowing I'm not the only one who is hypothesizing in child-rearing and life and relationships and all of the other things that get tricky.

The class has been helpful in making a few things more concrete, and I like that.  Maybe because I taught kindergarten for years or maybe because my brain just needs assistance, I like pictures - I like lists - I like simple ways I can remember difficult things.

Yesterday I heard a question in a completely different way.  "What do you want to be when you grow up?" was the question.  Just plain ole' that.  Nothing fancy.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

The belief of the instructor is that that very question may be the most important one we can ask our children, and maybe anyone.

Why?  I wondered the same thing.  What's the big deal?  The big deal is that the question offers the answerer hope that they will grow up and that there is something bigger to live for.

I love it - I really do.  We can ask that one little question and change things?  Well, I believe so.  I guess it doesn't much matter whether the answer is a cowgirl fairy go-go dancer princess or a medieval knight who fights fires on the weekends.  The point is that it matters, that there is a future, that you have a vision.  I'm all over this thing, folks.  I'm taking it on the road.

I'm thinking back over long past conversations with my kids and the trillions of kids I've known.  I'm remembering their various answers to the age-old question.  (I've been smiling a lot during this thinking.)  I remember asking the question when my girls were tiny, and I'll never forget their answers.  Emma wanted to be a cashier at Kroger and she wanted Daddy to be her bagboy.  Molly wanted to be a doctor and she wanted me to be the 'sticker lady' at her office.  Their answers have changed 1,567 times since then.  Molly realized she didn't like blood or needles and Emma realized the life of a cashier seemed tough.  That's not the point.  The point was that those little tiny souls knew way back when that folks cared about them, that they would grow and grow and grow and they had a vision of the future.

I sit here now, wondering about the simple ways I could change things - you could change things - if we but wondered, alone and with others, about what we want to be when we grow up?  I wonder at the ways I could offer hope to those who need some and the ways I might help someone formulate a vision when it's needed.  Sometimes we need a vision, a big and bright one, for way in the future.  Other times, I realize we all might just need help with the next five minutes or so.

I'm liking this newly attained tool.  I'm liking how it makes me think, how it slapped me in the face, woke me up and said, "Look at things with new eyes!"

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Like what?

This morning I witnessed the impossible.

This morning I conducted a test - a test of the Mothers Checking on Children's Brain Waves Association.  This was only a test.  In the event of an actual real-life moment, we would need further intervention.

On the drive to school, with only two miles remaining, I explained to my dear ones what was about to happen.  (We were at a red-light.)  I wanted to make sure the conducting of the test lasted the entirety of the two miles.

Here is a transcript of my test introduction: If this is a scary proposition, take a deep breath.  I'm happy to report that my children made it safely to school and all is well.

• Children, we will spend the next two miles discussing life, current events and school news.  
• Each of you will actively participate in this conversation.
• If, at any time, the conversation lags, I will direct discussion questions to each of you.
• As my offspring, it is your job to make it the next two miles without uttering the word 'like.'
• If you should err and use the word, you will recreate your sentence, refraining from the use of 'like.' 
• This will be tough.
• You can do it.
• I have confidence in you.
• Godspeed.

There was a nervous laugh, uneasy movements in their seats, as they wrapped their sweet little brains around the task at hand.

And then we began.  

Silence.  All conversation lapsed.  Quickly, I intervened.  

I directed a question at each of them - discussion questions where they had to think and could only answer using multiple words and phrases.  They answered.  

They began to talk, and they spoke v-e-r-y  s-l-o-w-l-y  and  d-e-l-i-b-e-r-a-t-e-l-y.  They woke up.  They took their time.  They concentrated.  They smiled.  They were attentively engaged in the moment.  

It was a struggle, but they persevered.  They would not go down without a fight.  

In that entire two mile trek, they held strong to the mission.  Only once did the word 'like' slip out.  The child who let it escape quickly noticed and began reconstructing the descriptive sentence with new word choices.  There was thinking involved.  It was beautiful to behold.  It was.  

It was a miracle.  If you have kids or have ever heard children talk or live in 2012, I think you can appreciate the astounding awe I felt in the moment.  My children talked.  I listened.  It lasted approximately four minutes.  Only once did the word 'like' enter the discussion.  I'll never forget it.  I won't.  

Why did I administer this exercise?  Because, like I like found like I was like curious if like my kids could like have even like a mini conversation without like saying like like every minute like.

What did I learn from this four minutes in the promised land?  Funny thing, I didn't glean what I thought I might.  I figured I would learn whether my children could actually speak without using the word.  I assumed I would sarcastically drive home the point that the Queen's English is being destroyed before our very eyes.  Those things did happen.  That's not what I'm taking away from this experiment, though, believe it or not.  

What I learned was something about being alert, awake, conscious.  I watched as I stripped my children  of a habitual crutch and I witnessed the intentionality of their every move.  I realized in that very moment that, as they believed I was proving a point that they use the silly word too much, they were actually teaching me something I won't forget.  Funny how that stuff happens.

They were smiling.  I was smiling.  We were having fun.  I was struck by how much things changed when they were forced to take a moment to really notice what was happening.  

Now I find myself wondering about all of the ways I 'auto pilot' through life.  

What am I missing?  What silly habits have I allowed to creep into my every move, every thought?  What would happen if I slowed down, became more deliberate, had to consider each thing that came from my mouth?  

Wow, like I can't even imagine!

Picture Prayers

Last week, my family was lucky enough to spend a few days at Kanuga.  If you read that, Cah knew gah, you've pronounced it correctly.  As far as I'm concerned, there are few places that compare to this  peaceful, fun, sacred space.  For years, folks have flocked to Kanuga for rest and renewal, for study and learning and to delight in nature alongside family and special friends.  It is a magical place.

Over the past few years, we have been invited to Kanuga for my Tim to serve as chaplain for a summer guest period full of happy folks on their yearly pilgrimage to the Blue Ridge mountains to a time and place that seems to stand still.   Normally, we are filled with the anticipation of a restful time, full of laughing and praying and walking and game-playing and long, lazy talks and learning and on and on and on.  This time, though, we were on the cusp of a big decision, a life-changing one that had the whole family on edge.

We were facing a big decision about leaving what we know and beginning a new adventure.  We were deep in thought; and, if I'm to be honest, we were angst-filled, too.  We were on edge.  We weren't ourselves.  We weren't 'doing what we do' at Kanuga.  We enjoyed our summer friends immensely, but we couldn't reach that peace-filled place that usually sets in about an hour after arrival.  We were surrounded by majestic beauty and quiet mossy waterfalls, but we weren't relaxing into it all.  The Kanuga lake was there in all its refreshing splendor, but our splashes in it weren't quite as care-free as most summers.  We were happy to be there, but our hearts were tied in knots.

We made our big decision while we were there.  We felt the push to leave what we know and begin another chapter in this crazy life.  We will soon make a move from Covington, Ga to Columbus, Ga - from Good Shepherd to Trinity.  Deciding feels good, but thinking about going home to begin the good-byes put us in an insular, awkward place.  I was happy to be surrounded by God's beauty; but I had a hard time wrapping my brain around all that was to come, and it was difficult to take from Kanuga all that it so freely gives.

One warm night after dinner, I wandered away from the group.  I grabbed my camera bag and headed down the hill, toward the lake, to have some quiet.  I reached for my camera with a confidence that it would help me see things in a different way.  I wanted to be silent.  I wanted to pray.  I wanted to gather myself, and I knew that the camera's lens was the friend I needed on the walk.

It might sound odd to pray with a camera, but I've done it a lot.  Bringing along the camera, makes me stop.  It makes me move slowly and watch.  Having the camera, and being alone, means I take my time.  I look more closely.  I take in the scene and I give it the thought needed to begin to understand.  I pause, I thank God for the moments I was too busy to notice before, and I listen.

I focus.  I press the shutter.

I pause.  I think.  I listen.  Sometimes I re-focus and press the shutter again. I'm not working towards perfection.  I'm not considering anyone else.  It's just me, being quiet and listening.  It's good for the soul - of that, I am sure.

I won't forget that walk.  I needed it.  I'll try to remember it.  I'll take with me the idea of knowing when it's time to walk away to focus, re-focus, press pause on the moment, be thankful and listen.  It's a good routine, I think, and I'm sure life always requires it.

That day I shot some photos I've already taken before.  That wasn't the point.  The process was what I needed - the seeing, the listening, the thanksgiving.

The pictures just help me remember.

Really . . . you want to complain?

That is a question I've been asking myself a lot lately.  A lot.

We have two air conditioners broken.  Two.

It's hot.  Really hot.

The air conditioning in our car (new to us) was apparently not working when we got it.  We didn't know that, of course, and had it fixed at the beginning of the warm spring.  Then it broke again - poof, literally.  A large puff of smoke had me pull over and open the hood.  I opened the hood (because I know you're supposed to open the hood in case of emergencies and look to see what's wrong).  The children gathered 'round.  I feebly searched for the long brace thing to keep the hood raised, and then I made my most astounding and astute statements ever - "Kids, there it is.  That's what it looks like when the hood is raised.  This is the little brace thingie that keeps it open.  That is the engine.  Isn't it nice?  Look, Dick.  See, Jane.  There is still smoke coming from inside here.   Hmmmmm.  This is what the engine looks like when the hood is opened."  The end.  That was all I knew.  The hood was up; I could take it no further.

Luckily, as I peered into the great expanse of black and gray stuff that means nothing to me, and my children peered at me peering, and the friend coming home with us continued to quote the length of each term of presidency, from George Washington to the present; a nice man wandered over to help.  He joined us with his head in the nothingness and exclaimed that we had 'blown something.'  (As I've eluded, I know little about car engines, but the large puff of smoke had already had me thinking that.)

Turns out, we had blown something or other that might be named a compressor or a condensor (might not) and means that the air conditioning does not work.  Oh it blows out nicely (we had already had that fixed) but the air that blows out is sauna-like; well, sauna-like with a lot of force.

The only place to fix the air conditioning is far away from our house (so we can use the extended warranty that was going to be accepted by everyone, including the twenty places close to our house) and so air conditioning repair has yet to make it to the top of the to-do list.  It is really hot in our car.  When I pick up sweaty, warm children from the bus, they do not feel cool and refreshed on their ride home.  When we work to get our hair done just right for an event, it does not look good at our arrival, as we have been blown to smithereens in a failing attempt to breathe.  The oft-cheerful moods of the riders in the car are not as cheerful as usual.  We are hot.

And now, slowly but surely, each new steamy day has brought the assurance that our upstairs air conditioning at home is broken also.  It did not happen all of a sudden, with a poof, like our car did.  There is no hood to raise, nothing to peer into, looking for the blown part.  We just noticed, with each passing day, that being upstairs was becoming a sweatier experience.  We called the man that we believe we have called the other two times we can remember this happening (though we can't quite remember what was wrong) but he is very busy this week.  A lot of folks have broken air conditioners, and we need to wait a few days before he can come.

This information has been relayed to the dear children, though every six to seven minutes one of them is careful to explain, again, that it is HOT!  "I mean, really, Mama, I just can't take this."

You know how you can open a window at one end of the house and then open a window on the other end of the house, and that creates a nice, cool breeze?  Yeah.  Well, that doesn't always work.  Sometimes, apparently, no actual air moves between them.  Sometimes it doesn't work the way it works on a crisp fall day.  There are a lot of fans, and the fans are moved from child to child, as they continue to aspire for the sleeping set-up that brings forth relief.  It is hot.

I want to complain.  I do.  I am hot.  Tim is hot.  The kids are hot.  Sadie hasn't come out and actually said it, but I think she is hot, too, as she isn't spending much time upstairs.  I guess our pores are nicely steamed and ready to go, but we are hot.  Really hot.

I want to complain.  I want to complain when I'm riding in the car.  I want to complain when I try to go to sleep.  I want to complain.  I want to shout about how hot I am.   Something keeps stopping me.  Something keeps telling me to shut up.

As soon as I am about to get heated up, complaining, something stops me.

I am hot.  It's true.  A few things are broken.  True.  It's just that complaining isn't in order; it's just not.

When I drive along in my car, upset that I'm not experiencing a comfortable cruising temperature, I am different from most people in the world.  I'm not different because my air conditioning doesn't work - I'm different because I'm in my car.  I don't walk home from work, past violence and I don't endure the intense heat of the sun or freezing temps.  I ride in a car.  I drive a car that my family owns.

When I head upstairs to get some sleep, I am different from so many brothers and sisters (down the street and on the other side of the world).  I'm not different because my air conditioning is broken.  I'm different because I'm in my house.  My house, the one we own (well, sort of, but we're getting there).  I'm different from most people because there is a roof over my head and a way for me to keep the things that go bump in the night, out in the night, and not in my house.  I am different because my children sleep in their own beds, not wrestling for a place to lay their heads, and they are safe.  I am different because my home is filled with things that symbolize all that we have in this world and all of the things we have been fortunate to do and all of the places we have been.

There is nothing extravagant here, but we are different than most of the people in the world.  I know, though I spend most of my days forgetting to be aware, that most of the people in the world would give an arm or a leg to have what we have, to live the way my children live.

It is tempting, to be sure, to compare ourselves to the family down the street or across town.  It is easy to find all of the things we need or don't have or wish for, to belittle what we do have.  That's easy.  It is easy to tell everyone how very hot we are, how uncomfortable we are, how unfortunate it all is.  That's easy.  It's just not true.

Truthfully, we are fortunate beyond words, to live the life we do.  We have more to be thankful for than most.  We do, and we forget.  We do, and we don't know a way to explain that to our children.

We have two air conditioners that are broken.  Most likely, they will soon be fixed.  We are uncomfortable.  We are hot.  We are sweaty.  We feel yucky.  Our hair gets messed up in the car and we are irritable.

But that's not the real story.  The real story is that we have a car.  We go anywhere we'd like in that car.  We take for granted that we'll turn the key, move the shift and be on our way to the next event in our very filled lives.  We have a house.  We spend our every days knowing that, at day's end, we are sure of exactly where we'll lay our heads and we know that where we'll lay our heads is safe.  We will not endure any violence while we rest; we will not hear bombs bursting in the distance.  The boogie man where we sleep is only in our heads.  We won't be worried tonight that any killer mosquitoes will sting us and take us from our families.  We'll only have to worry that we are uncomfortable and that it will be a few days before a nice man comes and fixes our problem and makes us comfortable again.  We will give him money that we needed to spend for something else, but we will work it out.  In the scheme of things, in light of the conditions that most of our fellow earth inhabitants live, we have no problem.  No problem whatsoever.

I want to complain.  I do.  I am hot.  Big deal.










And now, remembering how very fortunate most of us are, I need to announce the winner of yesterday's WHAT IS IT?

I tricked a bunch of folks on this one!  We had lots of guesses but not too many correct answers.  The winner of the free photo session is Kris G.!  Way to go, Kris!  Can't wait to 'shoot' your family!

This was the mystery photo:

And here is what it was . . .

Thanks for playing, friends, and for following the blog.  It's a blast to have you on the journey!

Chilling out and changing plans . . .

I love what I do.  I like thinking of it as an adventure.  Each day is a different leg of the adventure; I might be doing anything!  Sometimes I'm 'shooting' a giggling little baby, another occasion I might be working on a serious portrait, a business headshot, a growing family.  It's always something different, and that works perfectly with my personality.

So, the job to photograph a beautiful church pipe organ for a magazine cover was another perfect part of the adventure!  An organ, I thought . . . it won't run away, I won't have to worry about blinking or about one of the kids looking the wrong way or skin tones or outfit changes.  This would be fun.  I would enjoy considering the lighting needs, the different artistic angles, deciding on the way to 'paint the picture' of this majestic instrument for the people who would see the images.

And it was enjoyable.  I spent a couple of hours in the church with the organ company's artistic designer, and got hundreds of shots.  It turned out that lighting was our biggest problem.  Natural light was a must, as any flash or spotlights made a mess of the beautiful pipes.  We were happy with all of the angles except one, and I needed to go back to get this one last picture before the magazine layout was completed.  It was clear what needed to be done.  I knew exactly what I had to do.  It would be easy, really, just took a bit of planning with the folks at the church.  I set it up through the secretary, blocked out two hours for my work, checked and rechecked the day and got there ready to check off this last part of the list.  I was ready.

Here is the shot I needed:

Easy, right?  Yeah, easy.

Here is what I saw when I arrived, gear over my shoulder, at the church:

Sorry you cannot see the little man in the top of the cherry picker.  

I needed one set of dim lights on, all over the space.

     All of the lights were disconnected for servicing.

I needed the space stripped of everything; clean and clear.

     There was trash all over, scaffolding set up and this large monstrosity balanced in the center aisle.

There was one place where I could stand for the shot I needed.

     The monstrosity was in the one spot.

I need to be relaxed to do my best work.

     I was not relaxed.

Am I successfully painting this picture?  

Two people, with two different missions, had talked to the secretary.

Two people, with two different missions, had secured the time on the church calendar.

Two people were serious about their missions.

Two people were very frustrated.

The little man on the top of the cherry picker and I did not start off well.  Our friendship was not built on a happy first impression.  The little man and I were mad.

We both began explaining why we each belonged there.  We each attempted to tell the other the reason our work was the most important.  We got stern and made our voices serious to make our points.  We began to try to figure out 'whose fault' this whole thing was.

While we did these things, the lights of that beautiful space did not get cleaned and fixed.

While we did these things, the photograph to highlight this organ was not taken.

We spent a few minutes in that space.  Somehow then a little miracle happened.  I honestly don't know who spoke to stop the craziness.  Somehow we tried something different.  We dropped trying to figure out whose fault it was.  We decided not to go to the church office to 'figure out' what happened.  We started devising a plan.  That's when we became friends.  That's when things started looking up, when we got to what we were both there to do.

In our new space, the light man started thinking about how he could do the center area first and then get his assistant to help him move his massive climbing structure.  

In this new place, I began to assemble my equipment and readying everything to get the photos quickly when I could.  

Mr. Light Guy decided that he could re-activate electric power for just a few minutes while he moved his equipment.

I decided I could get the photos quickly because I would be ready.

He finished what he needed to do.  I got ready to do what I needed to do.  He moved the equipment and returned the room to light.  I quickly moved to the spot and began taking the needed photos.  We asked each other some casual questions about what we each did.  We laughed about the whole mix-up. It got almost fun to try to figure out how to make it all work, to work together to accomplish two goals. I got more relaxed.  

It all worked and it didn't take long.  I left the church long before the light fixer-uppers, but they seemed to be working along just like they needed to.  I met a nice guy, a guy who works on lighting for all sorts of different places and spaces.  I learned about all of the places he has 'done the lights.'  

Mr. Light Guy learned about what I do and why I do it.  

It all worked out.  

I entered that beautiful space with a tight chest, frustrated about the entire situation, assuming I wouldn't be able to get the shot I had only one day to get.  

I left that beautiful space with a smile.  I did what I needed to do and met another guy doing what he needed to do.  

I hate to think about how it would have (not) worked out if we had stayed where we were in those initial moments.  What if we had stayed in that place where we were spending our energy on whose fault it was?  What if we had stayed angry?  

Whew, it makes me wonder about other times I might stay in that place.  Makes me think about how much more creative and effective I can be when I'm not worrying about what everyone else is doing or how what they do is 'messing me up.'  This whole thing has me thinking about how good things are when we stop blaming and start working.  It's all got me wondering.

I'm actually thankful that I saw this:

                                                                                                       when I wanted to see this:

Had any similar experiences?  Makes us think, huh.

dear photographs

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.  Writing this blog has had me in a thoughtful place.  (I'm using the word 'place' the way my Dad has always used it.  Dad talks about the place where people are, but it has nothing whatsoever to do with where they live or where they are at this particular moment.  He might say, "She is in a really good place right now," meaning things are just peachy, or "He just isn't in a good place right now," which is bad news.)  So, I'm in a thoughtful place, which is neither good nor bad, just a time period where I've been doing a lot of thinking.  I'm learning that writing a blog will do that to a person; sharing pieces of myself, recalling old memories and putting my words and pictures "out there" gives me occasion to think.  I'm enjoying it.  Thanks for coming along.

I've spent a great deal of time considering what words and pictures I'd like to share.   If you know anything at all about me you know that I have A LOT to say and I take A LOT of photographs.  It's difficult to decide what goes where and when it should appear.  It's fun to think about future stories and pictures I'll share in the time to come; and I've  noticed that even the preparation leads to interesting thoughts and invites me to remember, revisit, consider, and dream.

A few months ago, my good friend Leigh shared a cool website, and I visit it often.  If you haven't heard of it, you're in for a treat - a thought-filled treat!  When you have a few minutes to enjoy something different, something quiet, something that will make you think, point your browser to DEAR PHOTOGRAPH and enjoy.  I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.  The dear photograph site is an antidote to so much we are bombarded with on the internet.  There is no motion or bright colors or exciting graphics.  There is no contest, no competition, no race.

On dear photograph you will see snapshots from the past taken in the present.   Snapshots from the past taken in the present.  What started a couple of years ago with 21 year old Taylor Jones quickly turned into a blog with millions of visitors.  The Canadian, Jones, was living at home with his parents and was looking through an old photo album.  He happened upon a snapshot that was taken at the same table where he sat looking at the photo.  He snapped a new photo of the old photo in the same place.  What came of that and a few other similar photos became this mega hit.  The site will draw you in, I suspect, and it will have you thinking.  Visit and see.  This is fun homework, and it's full of discoveries.

You might enjoy just looking around the site at what others have done.  You might look at all of the photos from one particular day or you may jump from day to day.  It seems when I spend time on dear photograph my mind wanders to places I've known.  Sometimes those are sad places, but many times they are happy ones.  I find myself 'going through the motions' of those on the website and imagine different photos I might use.  My husband loves to look at old photos, and he likes it best when they are in no order.  He thinks it's fun to be surprised each time he reaches for another photograph in the stack, never knowing what might be next.  Visiting this website might be much like that.

Go for a visit and stay for a while or check in quickly and then go wherever your mind takes you.  That's the fun part.  Enjoy.

Just imagining some 'dear photograph' projects.  Hope you will too.