Impermanence
Liz Cummings Browning
I can usually fall asleep at will. I lie down and let my thoughts roll by until dreams take over, usually within a few deep breaths. Then I sleep until nature calls, or until my immobility causes my arms to go numb, with a tingling that borders on pain. I must then get up and face the day. It’s no use trying to get back to sleep. Last night was different. My mind raced. My heartbeat thumped in my head like a drum. Nothing would quiet it. I felt panicked without knowing why. Maybe it’s what my eldest sister said about the Buddha nature: impermanence.
Today would have been the 32nd anniversary of my marriage to the late Elizabeth Cummings. I don’t believe that had anything to do with my night panic. It’s just a coincidence worth noting. I lost Liz in 2014. I mention this because it taught me how fragile life is. Nothing lasts. The universe just moves on. Grasping is foolhardy; it simply pushes away that which we desire.
Yet that’s the illusion of what photographers do when we “release” the shutter. A well timed exposure will prompt our colleagues to say, “Nice capture!” We talk about freezing time, as if that were possible. It’s not. As the songwriter Steven Haworth Miller wrote, “Time keeps on slippin’ slippin’, slippin’ into the future.” What we photographers do is say look! Take notice! Savor this before it’s gone. Yet it’s already gone. The perpetual string of moments has moved along, making room for more. Wake up and see!
It is possible to step back and experience what’s in front of us, however briefly. When that happens we have a chance to record the interaction of self and other, to say thank you for being here with me. When we see the images later, we can summon the moment to carry with us going forward. It becomes a living document.
Cinema Ballroom instructors and staff interpret Downton Abbey.
I recently photographed a dance performance for Cinema Ballroom in St. Paul, Minnesota. Soon I will leave for Orlando to photograph the Fred Astaire National Dance Championships as part of a team working with Lahari Photography. I enjoy the frenetic pace and problem solving that goes with this kind of photography. But when I return Nov. 5, I plan to slow down and concentrate more on my studio work.
Roy Fahland, 93, enjoying some time with his eldest daughter, Susan Martin.
Winter is coming. Let’s see what happens when we slow down and share one another’s company.
