Story Behind the Picture: Capture the Moon

I had a dream about a moon and a solitary tree. Yet, finding a solitary tree in the city of Philadelphia (and the surrounding suburbs) proved to be a wee bit of a challenge. There are plenty of trees to be had of course, but none that sit quietly unobscured without neighboring buildings. Or power lines. Or "No Parking" signs.

I finally found this tree in Valley Forge Park. I wandered for quite a while, hunting for the perfect tree from which to hang my moon. The acres of grass were heavy with water, and I was grateful for having thought to wear my Wellies. I loved searching for, and finally finding, this one perfect tree. All that was left to add was a dusky sky, a few stars, and a sleeping moon caught unaware.

So then, for whom would you capture the moon?

Story Behind the Pictures: The Green Path Series

I saw these images in my head long before I took them. It took me a while to find the right spot because a city like Philadelphia doesn't really offer any unobstructed, building-free views with rolling green paths leading on to nowhere. But find it I did - on my way back from collecting work from an exhibit in Phoenixville, I drove through Valley Forge and nearly went off the side of the road when I saw this view.

Did I mention the husband and kids were along for the ride?

Marty: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Pulling over! I have my camera with me! Look, actual TREES!!"
Marty: "Wow, and grass without parking garages on it too...who knew?"
Me: "I have just one favor - please, please keep the boys occupied for a bit until I get the shots I want, then you can let the run free."
Marty: "Sure hon, no problem!"

I started walking down the path, camera raised to my eye, when I saw a set of fingers reach for the lens.

Me: "Hello, Daniel."
Dan: "Hi Mom! You can take a picture of me now!"
Lucas: "Me too! Me too!" *as he runs into the back of my legs, not wanting to miss anything*

Marty: "Boys, come over here - Mommy has work to do!"
Me: "Thanks ever so much, darling..."

Again, I scan the horizon for interesting shapes and am about to set off once more, when I hear Danny scream.

Me: "What's going on?"
Dan: "I stepped in a PUDDLE and my shoe is WET!"

Marty, realizing I might be a little annoyed, gestures that he's got the situation under control.

Marty: "I've got it, sweetie! Just go do your thing, don't worry about us!
Lucas: "Ow, Danny PUSHED me!"
Dan: "Nu-uh, I did NOT push you. I SHOVED you. There's a difference."

At this point, I gave up. The boys came galloping down the hill behind me, thrilled to be let loose in a sea of rolling amber and green. After about thirty minutes, they all voluntarily headed back up to the car, their shoes covered in mud and their hair full of downy seedlings from the cotton plants they discovered along the path. It occurred to me then that exhausting the children first was probably a better plan than holding them captive.

I grabbed a few moments of solitude and captured these three images as their voices faded and floated away by the fall breeze. By the time I reached the car, they were all buckled in to their seats, waiting patiently for me, tired smiles on their rosy faces.

Story Behind the Picture: A Magical Night

There is something magical about trees. Maybe it's the way their branches and leaves rustle and speak when the wind rushes past, or maybe it's the way they filter the sun and create a shady carpet on which we can rest. The most magical trees are the ones that create an umbrella with their branches that touch the ground all around, yet leave a secret hiding place close to their trunks.
"Mommy, come look what I found!" called Danny during a walk on a beautiful September evening. "It's a faerie house!" I crawled under the branches with him, and saw this beautiful little spot he had discovered. We could hear the footsteps of passersby, but they could not see us, nestled quietly under the canopy of leaves. "I think the faeries come out and dance when they think no one is looking," he whispered. I nodded quietly as we watched the glow of the sunlight together, waiting for the faeries to appear.

Story Behind the Picture: View from the Hill

I would never have said that landscapes are my strength, but when I was hired for a commissioned piece (a landscape, no less), I decided to take on the project because it would be a happy challenge. It was a beautiful day at the arboretum, and I shot for about two hours as I walked the grounds. The trees were gorgeous, but nothing really gave me that "ah-ha!" moment when I looked through the viewfinder. Until, that is, I decided to look on the top of a hill. There was something lovely about the space between all those glorious green leaves, a welcoming path across the top of the hill, looking out to endless miles behind. This photograph makes me think of the way I like to live my days: enjoy and revel in the present, yet look forward to the journey beyond.

Story Behind the Picture: Roots

I walk past these trees nearly every day. They exist on the banks of a near-by creek, defying storms, floods, and gravity with the strength of their roots. They are two very distinct, separate trees. High above the frame of this image, they lean away from one another, each sheltering its own portion of the creek with massive limbs and glossy leaves. Most people comment on the leaves, on the shade, on the expanse of those ancient branches, but I'm not most people. I'm drawn to the roots, to their very base, where they knit down into the earth and support one another in snow and sun alike. It's easy to find someone who will stand beside you, but rarest of all is the person who will cling to the earth with you while still giving space to breathe at the top. We should all be so fortunate as the trees.

Story Behind the Picture: "Oslo"

The cold snap in the weather prompted my four year-old to rummage through the drawer for winter hats this morning. He chose one woven with intricate patterns of snowflakes and reindeer, complete with tassel on top. "Where did you get this hat, mommy?" he asked, his brown eyes peeking out from under the blue and white wool. "I bought that in Norway, a long time ago," I replied, remembering my solo trip to Scandinavia with the foggy wistfulness that comes from years of "amnesia," the kind that helps you forget the biting cold winds, the rough waters of the fjords that threatened to make even the most seasoned sea traveler ill, or the overnight train that stalled somewhere in the wilderness above the arctic circle, surrounded by nothing but fir trees and the occasional howling wolf. I was young, only a graduate student a the time, and I carried everything I owned on my back for five days straight. I stayed in hostels. I ate strange foods that I could not pronounce. I spoke enough Norwegian to get by, although most people took pity on me and kindly communicated with me in English (especially after I tried to order a pint of "wool"...the word for "beer" and "wool" in Norwegian are remarkably similar...). I learned to navigate foreign cities and foreign terrain without doubting my own instincts. I learned never to hop on a trolley without paying (hey, I was poor...but that didn't stop the transport authorities from confiscating my passport...they held me on that same trolley for about 45 minutes until they saw I was scared enough to never fare dodge again). I learned how to pluck wool from sheep, and card, spin, and weave it into sails as Norwegian women did so long ago (the real reason I was actually there...and you all know without sails, there would have been no Viking exploration, no discoveries. You can thank the Norwegian ladies for that!). I took this photo on the last day of my trip: I had just enough money to buy a roll of film (and yes, still pay for the trolley to take me to the Oslo airport). I walked through Vigland's Sculpture Park, listening to the snow crunch under the treads of my hiking boots. My ruck sack weighed about 50 pounds and it was slow going through the deep, white drifts. I was grateful to come across this paved, nearly clear pathway with its rows of welcoming trees, leading me onward.