Time for Everything

Sharon McKeeman's Photoblog

05-17-2012

White Space

I don’t have a lot to say.

Just that this is my white space. My days are full crowded with noise and work. Recently it’s decisions and worry. But everything has to drop and I pick up the lens to rightly see little boys in golden light. Night falling and they are still full to the brim with energy, running, running . . .

They say the most important part of a piece of art is the negative space.

When you’re putting pencil to paper or brush to canvas, what you’re actually crafting are the untouched areas. The decision to let lie at rest brings the beauty and the focus to the focal point, the point of importance, that one part that truly matters and has something to say in the work. The dancing play of white space lets the work breath, empowers it to speak.

The to do list looms, worries creep in. I try to think it all through, work out the puzzle, control the uncontrollable and I run on empty. Til I remember this cramming of it all in makes for kitsch and ugly paintings. The overworking of the brush strokes muddies the image. So I erase space to take a deep breath. This my white space, garden growing and capturing the moments, sitting with steaming tea and squares of chocolate to see where they will take me. I fell in love with editing my photos while I lay on the couch healing, baby snug on my chest, then as he grew, me at my desk with him lying snoring across my shoulder. Now he gallops through the day, nurses and falls to dreaming in his bed as I sneak downstairs for a few moments of quiet to soak up the day. For a few moments of white space . . . that helps me rightly see them

(I was inspired by a photographer blogging his homemade slingshots. So I got my boys some slingshot bands but they are still in search of the “perfect” sticks for them. While they search they wreak lots of mayhem shooting playdoh from them with their hands. This night baby man joined in the craziness! What could be more fun for a toddler than a giant rubber band? And yes Baby Man’s other nickname is Ninja Baby! )

Do you have white space in your life? If not, get some quick! It could be anything, cooking, crafting, gardening, reading, running, anything you love that puts your mind at rest and lights your heart up . . .

5-14-12 . 24-70mm . dusk

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05-13-2012

Mother to potted plants and a baby flown away . . .

I am a mother to potted plants and a baby flown away.

Children grown in pots, filled lovingly with soil and whisked off to the next home every few years. I want them to send their roots down, shoot out for miles and soak up the California soil, but I am afraid. Fearful to let down my guard, loose control because the earth is years and years, generations of life and death all mixed together. My pots are handpicked, filled exactly with what I “think” is best and they are a heavy but transient load to hoist and take to the next stop on our journey leading where? Do you know this fear, this uneasy unrest, the constant question . . . what do I have to give, where should they grow, when should I trim, how under heaven do I feed them what they need?

And the baby flown away, he reminds me the darkness in this world, he whispers that all will be well in the someday of eternity. I loose track of his blond curls, his sweet face and I forget he is a man running now, more real, more alive, more himself than we. I know that he loves me because he told me in a dream and I wonder why. Me a failure of a mother and carrying these children the only thing I’ve ever done that really matters.

Do you know this pain of feeling failure, of babies flown or never given? Is this day beauty or a scar? Can it be anything other than both? Questions, questions and they’re all I know anymore. Resting in their equilibrium the only thing to do. Soaking up the searing pain and scandalous beauty intertwining because they feed each other. Symbiotic and the death feeds the soil, the blooms making it worth all the sacrifice. Only today’s bloom can be held but it carries in it the seed of tomorrow’s sweet smell. Falling to the ground to rise again.

So we dig our hands down in the soil, no matter where home lies, no matter our space on the land. Blessed by the sun and rain and the Maker of this grand globe. Tiny specs pressed down and we wait for them to spring up and surprise with the miracle once again, bellies filled and tongues thrilled.

Questions swirl and my heart beats fast and frail, but this garden is so good. So good and the one to come is better. I thank him for these seedlings given undeserved, blessed children and the one He holds tight. Beg for wisdom to be a good gardener of little hearts and thank Him for the rain and sun that I could never shower on them.

No matter your journey or who you hold in your arms, I pray you can rest in His love this Mother’s Day.

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05-09-2012

Seeing

Many days I’m blind. Hands placed decidedly across my eyes or hiding behind a wall, to timid to peek out. Some days just too dead tired to lift my head and look.

But the story is still there, revealed by each artist, shared by His body – wether I choose to witness or not. To see takes cutting through all the noise, stepping purposeful and looking what is important square in the face.

Strength comes from seeing his body sharing the same struggles, being nudged toward the same goals – longings, dreams and wisdom mingle online. I don’t know if it’s because we hear each other, wake to a thought and echo our own – or if it’s because He is leading us in similar seasons as a whole. Maybe both are intertwined, maybe He uses our words and images to speak to each other.

This week at worship the world overwhelms and I keep my lips shut tight, eyes clouded with tears. Come home in the dark to the man I love and see more clearly in His arms. Us silly kids, friends, lovers battle scared and road weary – one body we are, laying down our defenses, showing eachother the way back to being beloved.

And then the week starts frantic, nose to the grindstone makes it hard to see straight. He comes home, tells me I’m doing the right thing, just don’t give up. Calms my heart enough to hear a familiar voice that I have never met speak truth, beautiful radiant truth into my harried mess. I read and I see more clearly. A friend’s text and I know I’m not alone in being hard pressed. An email and I’m sharing past pain in order to give hope. I remember all the body giving each other sight, strengthening our arms for His work. A family who I know only from their words and images ringing true – remind me I’m not alone in the hard task and blessing of growing new life. They share my longing for space and wonder where to call home and inspire with their contentment in all seasons. A musician‘s iPhone photos open my eyes again to all the exploration and beauty that I forget in the day to day. Another family inspiring with their nonstop adventures overflowing with laughter, taking time to teach me how to capture my own moments. Mothers laying out Bibles and scooping up light spilled on children. A daughter and mother crafting loveliness locally and spilling joy on everyone they meet. I could go on and on . . . His body broken for each other, sharing our scars and feeding each other with beauty and hope. It only takes a shred of courage to open my eyes a bit, just a peek around the corner with a faithful gaze to recognize His handiwork, to see His church amidst the fury of this world. And it takes a moment to slow down, to tear my gaze away from the whirling chaos that demands my attention, to hear and see Him speak through story, through art and through each other’s lives.

The photos above are from this session I shot of my friend and her boys recently. I didn’t ask them to pose like this, these images just came from them exploring interacting with the camera. Children are so raw and real, they seem to know it’s all about seeing – or not. I envy the honesty they know to look with, that honesty we forget as we “mature”.

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05-07-2012

Shadows and Regrets

I used to pound it out, all the fear. One shoe in front of another, running through the misty streets watching the angst steam away with my breath. Taking it all in, Yellowcard blasting in my ears, wind rushing, sun coming up, going down and and the sky always stretching on. I ran through every trouble, each separation. I ran to hold on to sanity with my love a million miles away, not promised to return and two little boys clinging to me for dear life. Over and over I listened, “This is me afraid”, “Shadows and Regrets” . . . and I held on to a boy and girl in love and all the dreams we dared to see.

Then came disaster and my body torn apart. The steps slowed to a stumble, feeling blessed just to keep two feet firm underneath me. Swaying, carrying the weight of new life in my fearful self I marched slowly on. I gained a child to hold and forgot a few dreams and more than a little of myself along the way. L’Engle says we must forget ourselves in the making but when we lose the little girl who dreamed we are diminished, less than whole.

Now, emotions swirl as my baby grows up. I turn to what I know, quicken the steps of an untrustworthy body and for a few minutes I run again. The melody in my ears, the sun grown long, shadows, regrets . . . but I can feel the life pulsing in my chest, greedily sucking in the air. A smile spreads – I can’t give up, not on one solitary dream, not on my man, not on our love, not on all the romance of this broken world.

The shadows reach long, regrets creep in and pile high, threatening to crowd out the beauty He gives. I haven’t managed to give them all I wish, I haven’t walked the path as well as I would have liked. But this is what I have, light on little shoulders. Spelling lesson in an evening wonderland (in nothin but undies. Crazy, unbounded life climbing on the table, mad to create. This is enough, always will be and I will forever hold these moments. The dark gives the light its’ purpose, its’ brilliant beauty, its’ power. Scoop up this dappled light, spots of truth and forget all the rest. Our real reality is loveliness no matter what else we have seen. L’Engle, she reminds me of this and that it is no fault of my own that I receive – pure gift is given me. In the light of day our most horrid moments will make sense in this story we have run and stumbled through. And the moments bathed in light, those are ours to keep forever . . . held safe in His hands. He does the holding, I’m to let go . . .

Fingers laced with my love, lying in his arms I am whole enough to let go a bit more . . . and we run on dreaming

“When we were only kids

And we were best of friends

And we hoped for the best

And let go of the rest

The shadows and regrets

We let go of the rest”

- Yellowcard

4-12 . 85mm . LR + VSCO . evening window light

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05-02-2012

Painted all right

There are days where the world spins right, all painted with beauty. Days when the smiles and silly and growing things are enough.When the feel of your desk solid and the tea warm make your heart sigh gratitude. There are days I am content and worry takes a backseat to all His goodness poured out right now. Days I can glimpse the golden gleam of childhood and feel the dandelions brush my cheek just the way they used to. Moments in this uncertain swirl of life where I remember we are always safe in our Father’s hands. When I see gifts everywhere and they are enough.

I don’t yet know how to forever linger in this wholeness, but it feels like coming home. We have been trying to find a new roof over our heads, somewhere to call our “own”. All we found was confusion sprinkled with disappointment. And yet as I return to where He has placed me, it feels like coming home. Joy to paint a wall, plant a seed, see my children run and play, create and grow. We live surrounded in beauty, smothered by a fallen world. Still I long for that tiny backyard, sheltered under one sprawling tree. I miss the honeysuckle bush sweet and how I popped its’ fruit between my fingers. Breathtaking gardens are visited, nature I never dreamed of is witnessed . . . but nowhere to be found is that green park rolling out between friendly trees, fairies dancing amidst the neighbors’ flower beds, elfin folk hiding round rocky borders. It’s childhood I seek.

Amidst all the diapers and responsibilities, if I can be a bit more Mary, a lot less Martha, my children hand it back to me. Between the add your sums and sound out your letters we stop to paint the world right with blue, yellow and red. We try to slow down the relentless march of days with lunches spread out on sand. Time is washed away in waves, while crabs are caught – me just hoping they will remember the golden light of innocence the way I still do.

“We write, we make music, we draw pictures, because we are listening for meaning, feeling for healing. And during the writing of the story, or the painting, or the composing or singing or playing, we are returned to that open creativity which was ours when we were children.” – Madeleine L’Engle (she calls it wonderful racketty creativity

4-28-12 . 85mm . indoor morning light . painting pine wood derby cars, baby man’s first paint adventure

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