The Dear Sister Anthology

As a child, I knew that I would someday pick up photography as a hobby.  I never envisioned myself as a photographer – always a writer – but there was something about the power that a photograph can hold.  The way you can view a photo from a time that you don’t remember as a baby or a photo you took yesterday and the image can evoke emotions that you thought were buried or you simply had forgotten were even there.

This particular photo is one of my favorites.  It was taken when I was probably a few months old.  I’m being held by my sister and am with my two brothers.  The film of 1979 isn’t like the digital technology of today, but I think this is one of the most beautiful photos in my possession.  A perfect photo today means flawlessness, clarity, and jaw dropping color.  A perfect photo for me, though, is looking at something and getting lost in it.  The blur, the accidental lighting, the faded pieces of memory.

I am a passionate amateur photographer and thank heavens that digital cameras exist for my artistic drive.  But I miss how film allowed and even celebrated unevenness.  Light that wasn’t well distributed, faces that are scrunched, looking away, blinking.  I miss how film gave you limits and you simply had to accept whatever the shutter saw, no exception.  If you were out of film, you were out of film.  No double or triple pictures taken in sequence like we do now with digital. I love this photo as is…a picture of me and my siblings, with an old bike on the lawn of our New Jersey home is more precious than most of my technically superior images now.  Film captures more than the subjects.  It reflects our human nature for error and missteps.

We are like that.  Our lives are like that.  Our memories are certainly like that.

Beautiful.  Uneven.  Our personal memos to embrace our imperfect lives.

Beautiful blueberries handpicked by my parents

I don’t know many people who refute blueberries.  In some form of it – pie, smoothie, shake, tart, muffin, pancake, even beer – everyone finds their way to a blueberry or two.

The blueberry is an enormously healthy fruit.  Research reports come back glowing about the blueberry: it can help sustain vision, clear out toxins, promote your immunity, keep your memory sharp, aid in both cancer and Alzheimer’s treatment, smooth out your digestive track, and give your brain a happy kick.

Blueberries.  They sound life-saving, don’t they?

There are two blueberries in my life.  One source is my deliciously irresistible vegan choco-blueberry smoothie.  This smoothie simply makes me happy, is healthy to boot, and starts my mornings off with just enough of a full stomach to feel satisfied and also not too heavy that I feel sluggish.  It gives me energy to carry my son up and down the stairs, change his diapers, feed him bottles and food, clean up his messes, watch him crawl, play with him on the couch, write, edit, launder clothes, and do the dishes before noon everyday.

The blueberry is my drug.

The other blueberry is Nick, my husband.  And while I physically do not try to blend Nick in my smoothie or eat him for better health, he’s he kind of partner that is not only life-sustaining, but life-giving.  He often clears my head, opens my heart, helps me remember what is important, and tries everything in his power to keep me healthy – mentally and physically.  That means he tries to understand the writing, publishing, and blogging world even though he’s never written, published, or blogged one word in his life.  It means watering the newly planted grass seed at 10pm at night because I didn’t remember to do so earlier that day.  It means laughing with me right before I fall asleep doing impersonations of Stephen Colbert.  Being my blueberry means sitting out on the front steps of our house to wait for the Super Harvest Moon and pointing out peach-colored autumn leaves on a feathering tree.

The blueberry people of your life are the ones who not only help you recover from whatever has ailed you, but help give you new life, new perspective.

In the aftermath of assault, most people try to be there for you and try to understand, but it will only be one ir two people who stay.  The one or two who admit they DON’T understand, but understanding is not a prerequisite for being there and listening.

Who’s been a blueberry in your life?

Cross posted at My Ecdysis

There’s a reason why there are so many songs about “change.”  Outside of the genre of love, change – and our in/ability to cope with it – is often a subject of human interest.  What was once there is no longer.  The relationship that flourished is now stagnant.  The soil that was once ripe for tilling is now overturned with rocks.  The closet’s door that always had to be shut at night now swings open with ease.

I used to be identify Republican (I know…I know…) when I was a roaring 8 year old, listening to political debates with my Dad.  I used to think that when the sun shined in our living room, the dust particles were fairies protecting me and my family.  During grade school recess, I was told to go back to my own country, and I believed I wasn’t supposed to be in the United States because of my brown skin.  I used to envy smokers, write political letters addressed to the world, and signed up for every kind of march in D.C. once I was on my own.

I identify independent now and listen to Sinatra with my Dad.  I’m allergic to dust and believe I have every right to live where I am.  I tried smoking and quit, write political letters addressed to the world, and walk with my son around the neighborhood telling him about the revelations of Latin America and the Philippine cultures.

Who were you before?  Who are you now?