This photograph is one of my favorites.

It isn’t the best of photos.  It isn’t colorful, it isn’t insanely interesting.  Still, the misty, hazy photograph speaks to me in a way that most others don’t.   It reminds me, quite simply, of an evening with the love of my life, of taking his hand in mine and holding him close while I sang these words, so soft that only he could hear.

Look at me, I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree;
And I feel like I’m clingin’ to a cloud,
I can’ t understand
I get misty, just holding your hand.

Walk my way,
And a thousand violins begin to play,
Or it might be the sound of your hello,
That music I hear,
I get misty, the moment you’re near.

We danced on the pier in my beautiful North Carolina, the gentle sounds of the Atlantic Ocean below, a beautiful full moon above us, and a host of bemused fishermen watching.  The night, the moment, the location– all was completely perfect.

What I would give to have more than just the memories of that moment, and all others, with this one person– the one person.  I only hope that one day I can love like that again, and not rely on mist covered piers to take me back to that simple, perfect feeling.

The mirror-like waters of Queen’s Creek reflected a padparadsha sunrise this morning, misty and tranquil. The only movement– a single seagull, reflected in the water, drifting gracefully in silhouette.

Mornings like this, I feel completely and utterly alone. There was a time when seeing something so beautiful would lift my spirits. That time is now gone, replaced with the sinking realization that I am not just alone, but lonely, in body and in spirit. I would give anything to be able to share this morning with that one person who means more than all others combined.

Those of you who know me know that one of my least favorite things to do, besides folding clothes, is going shopping. Any kind of shopping, really. Armed with my list and my wallet, I make it a point to get into the store, get what I need, and get out before I lose what little is left of my humanity in the magazine aisle. Whilst some people believe in retail therapy as a way to get through the dark days, I firmly believe that shopping (for anything except gadgets for my camera…) is one of the seven deadly sins.

Today was my once every few weeks run to the store– for milk, bread, and fresh veggies. I usually have a month’s worth of food stocked in the kitchen and pantry, and go by a simple menu when it comes time to cook. Unfortunately, things like milk, bread, and veggies don’t last forever and I’m stuck with a quick trip to the store.

The trip today was memorable, albeit for only one reason. As I waited, not-to-patiently, in checkout, I had the extreme pleasure of waiting behind a dainty young woman with the number “69″ tattooed on the nape of her neck. In addition to the ‘digits’ she had holes in her earlobes large enough for a chipmunk to crawl comfortably through, and her panties (pink and flowery) were quite visible through the holes in her blue jeans.

A number of things came to mind while looking at this dainty little flower of feminine perfection.

I am not anti-tattoo. I have several myself, and occasionally contemplate getting another. Unfortunately, I am limited to the number of places a tattoo could go, as at 34 years of age I worry about the sag-ability factor of any tattoo I might choose to get. I am, however, anti stupid tattoos. Why the holy hell would someone get that tattooed on their body? Somewhat tongue in cheek, I wondered about the things that the number “69″ could represent. Barring the obvious, these are my conclusions.

This woman must be a fan of Lance Klusener. Perhaps she is a student of science who favors, above all, thulium. Perhaps her tastes run more toward Astronomy and Messier 69. Maybe, just maybe, she is a fan of semiprime numbers.

As I stood in line at the store, pondering the above (and more that I can’t write in this g-rated blog) I was given more of a glimpse into this interesting creature. It seems the cashier at the store had spent some quality time with my tattooed young flower at a recent party, and reminded her that she had a left a little bit of vodka behind when she was taken home, passed out drunk, by her friends. Why did this not surprise me?

A young mother with a small child, perhaps 5 years old, was in line behind me. As I started placing my groceries on the belt for check-out, I heard the child say, “Momma, what are those numbers on her neck?” Her mother, a little flustered, said, “I don’t know, Emily. I just don’t know.”

What brings you joy?

Someone asked me this question today, after what has admittedly been one of the worst few weeks I’ve ever had. I had to stop for a few moments and ponder the question.

According to Merriam-Webster, Joy is the emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires, the expression or exhibition of such emotion, a state of happiness or felicity, or a source or cause of delight. The question, however, was not what is joy, but what brings you joy?

I have known joy, although at a different times in my life it has been illusive at best. I struggle with remembering joyful times, as sorrow and grief seem to be more substantial emotions and easier, for lack of a better term, to hold on to.

I have sorrow, mostly centering around one particular person and the ending of a relationship that is exquisitely painful to think about. Each and every day I struggle with the loss of this relationship, while trying to find comfort in the love that I know existed then, and remains constant even now.

In discussion with a chaplain friend, he challenged me to find what brings me joy– something completely selfish, in many respects. How do you find what brings you joy?

As I write this, Cathie Ryan is singing a beautiful song called, “Be Like the Sea”

It matters nothing what they did to you
The storm is over, the wreckage through
Leave them in your wake, no more for you to take
Be like the sea

If it hurts your heart, cast it up on the shore
Let it go forever, ceart go leor
Wash away the sorrow, the tears of no tomorrow
Be like the sea

If it hurts your heart, cast it up on the shore.   What profound words, really~ to take what has been hurting you and to let it go, to throw it from you, where it can be moved and buried with the tide.  Little by little, sharp edges become dull by the movement of sand and of water.  I don’t think the pain ever completely goes away, but perhaps the burden of it becomes easier to carry.

Perhaps the only way that one can find what brings them joy is to realize, and accept, what brings them sorrow.

Don’t let that term fool you. While “on the first day” can mean something extremely profound, in this case it means simply that this is the first entry of the ‘blog’ (a term that I despise, mind you…)

Why start blogging? (The term ‘blogging’ sounds almost vulgar, don’t you think?) Simply put, I started this blog to share my thoughts and photography with a select few people. Those of you who found me whilst stumbling through, welcome.

Thank you for visiting.