Hello, dear reader. I’d apologize for my long absence, but the truth is, this is how most of my blogging efforts end up. I’ll endeavor to do better moving forward.

Today is Father’s Day, and because I happen to have lived for nearly four decades with a remarkable father, it seemed only right to share a little about what I’ve learned from him here. I hope these words reflect just a small measure of the respect, admiration, and love I have for a great dad.

I’ve written before about how he won my first camera in a photo contest, and how that changed my life. But I’ve not told you about how he has supported my interest in the art for more than two decades. Or how he has emboldened me to go confidently in the direction of my dreams. How he helped me pack all of my things in a trailer and move to Austin for grad school, knowing he would return to a truly empty house for the first time since my mother died.

I’ve not yet told you about the lessons in kindness and generosity I learned from a young age. What it meant to see people in need and find ways to meet that need.

Or how I learned from his example just what it means to really show up. To show up when things are hard. To be true to your obligations to other people even when it hurts or it’s scary or it’s not going to end the way you want.

Y’all. My dad has friends he’s still in contact with from childhood and junior high and high school and college. I love this about him because it’s a perfect example of his faithfulness to other people. He’s a genuine friend for the long haul.

Speaking of faithfulness, I can’t tell you how much I admire his steadfast commitment to service in the work of the church. Some of my earliest memories are of him serving on the missions committee of the church I grew up at, hearing him talk about the work that was going on. I distinctly remember him routinely calculating the 17-hour time difference between here and New Zealand so he could plan a time to call our missionary — and his friend — there.

Nearly every quarter for the past four decades you could find him teaching or co-teaching a class. I’ve seen the way he prepares and the seriousness of his study, the sections of his library devoted to books about the bible. I’ve seen him lead Griefshare classes, helping others learn to navigate life after loss.

I love all of the ways I am like him: our sentimental hearts, our shared love of history and football and aviation, our passion for photography, our deep interest in books and learning. I am grateful every day that of all the dads in the world, this one is mine.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Mostly, this blog is about things I want to learn. Those are the exciting lessons, the ones that get you out of bed in the morning, fired up for whatever’s coming next.

But there are other lessons. Lessons no one signs up for, but that life enrolls us in anyway.

Today marks the 15th anniversary of my mother’s passing. In the decade and a half that separates that day from this one, I’ve come to what I think are fundamental truths about grief and about living with those who are grieving.

It is okay to hurt.

This one probably seems self-evident. Of course grief hurts. It hurts in ways that catch your breath, that feel like an icicle has grown in your gut, that sometimes you think you will never, ever be okay again.

But the truth is, loss hurts in other ways, too. I remember reading somewhere that grief can feel like the ocean and being in it can feel like being pounded relentlessly by an unending surf. But loss can also feel like a soft sorrow, a swimming pool of sadness that’s just as real as the hard grief, just as capable of surrounding you, but with a distinct quality all its own.

Five thousand, four hundred and seventy-eight days have elapsed since my mother died. I can assure you that not a single one of them went by that I didn’t miss her. That day will never come. And if you are missing someone, if you are hurting in their absence, know this: it is okay to hurt.

It is okay to be happy.

I am a happy person. Truly. I have a wonderful life that I love. It’s an odd thing, really, to be joyful but also recognize that I carry sorrow in my heart. I’ve tried to explain it this way: I AM happy. I HAVE sadness. They’re both true.

Probably the hardest part about this truth is that some of the joy I find in life is not DESPITE my mother’s death. There are good and beautiful things in my lift that exist only because of it. That’s not to say it’s a trade I’d have willingly made, but I do recognize the irony.

For example, I have a wonderful stepmother (bonus mom is actually the preferred nomenclature around these parts). Her counsel is invaluable to me, her kind heart and quick laughter a joy to everyone around her. And with her came a little sister and a significant enlarging of my extended family. New traditions have been forged, new reasons to celebrate, new inside jokes to share. They aren’t replacements for the family that existed before. They’re just the new normal, and it’s a very, very good one.

Being happy doesn’t mean you don’t love the person you lost. It’s okay to be happy.

If you’re not yourself grieving, you may wonder what you can do to help support the people in your life who are.

Show up.

Sometimes, this one seems easy. We call at the house. We bring food. We go to the funeral. And when we’re done doing all of that, we go home or we go to work or the grocery store or any of the other normal places people go. But grieving people go home to start new lives that look nothing like the life they knew days before.

So, show up. Show up in a week, in a month, in a year, in a decade. Check in. Hug. Tell them you love them.

You do not have to know the right words to say to be a person who shows up. You don’t have to say anything at all. You can just be there, and your presence and your help will say everything that needs saying.

Remember.

This one is, in many ways, just a continuation of showing up. If you knew the person they’re missing, especially if you also miss them, remember that person. Out loud (or in writing). It is a great delight to me when someone recalls something they loved about my mom because it reminds me that I am not alone (and my family is not alone) in missing her.

I know there is hesitation sometimes to bring up memories of someone who has passed. That hesitation stems from a fear that you’ll make a grieving person sad. In my experience, that fear is unwarranted. The person they’ve lost is never far from their thoughts, especially during holidays or other important dates.

Go ahead and remember.

You may well find that your journey through grief is different from my own. Loss is deeply personal. My hope for you is that when you face these kinds of involuntary lessons, your weeping will again turn to dancing and that you will again find yourself clothed with joy. 

 

It’s Pinterest’s fault. Maybe also a little bit the fault of my friend Staci, who pinned a beautiful photo of wooden spoons. Either way, I happened to see the pin sometime in the spring of 2014, just as I was looking to pick up a new hobby. Somehow, I got the bright idea that I would try my hand at carving a coffee scoop.

Because I wasn’t sure how long-lasting this hobby was going to be, I decided I’d start off using a utility knife. This way, I didn’t have to invest in any sharpening equipment. At the time it made sense, but let me just tell you what a terrible, terrible idea this is. That triangular blade is not made for easily shaping any part of a coffee scoop.

Eventually, I upgraded to real carving tools, first palm gouges (I have a scar on my left thumb the exact size and curve my larger palm gouge…), and then a Mora carving knife set. That hook knife, despite its slightly terrifying appearance, is excellent for carving the bowl of a serving spoon. For what it’s worth, I’ve mostly progressed to using full-size gouges and chisels that I keep in a sweet tool roll from a maker named Janet Switzer, in Beaulah, Colorado.

Speaking of scars, I confess I’ve gotten more than my fair share since I started. I’m particularly fond of a small triangular one on my left index finger that looks remarkably like a shark’s fin.

Perhaps, in addition to more wood carving skills, I ought to also put first aid on the list of crafts to master….

When I was around 11 or 12, my father won a camera in a photo contest. Every year, after the air show in Oklahoma City (the now-defunct Aerospace America), photographers entered their air show photos into a contest, and the winners had their images hung at the International Photography Hall of Fame (the IPHoF, housed in the former Omniplex, moved to St. Louis in 2013).

As it happened, the camera he won – a Canon EOS Elan – wasn’t as nice as the EOS 630 he already owned, and so he gave the camera to me. An exciting moment, to be sure. But I had no way of knowing then that he’d set in motion a lifelong love of photography that would come to dominate my professional goals and personal hobbies.

For more than 2/3 of my life, I have found my identity, at least in part, in being a photographer. I understand myself and the world around me best when I have a camera in my hand. My friends must tire of my insistence that they “look over there – great light” or that they sit tight, because when you’re IN the good light, you get your picture made.

Most of us walk around with incredible cameras in our pockets and purses. Sharp, fast, and easy to use, the advances in cell phone cameras have all but eliminated the barriers between you and making great images. The generalist user can skip over the technical hurdles and focus on making meaning photos of the world they see around them.

Some photography purists will scoff at that last sentence. But the reality is that photographs are a way to make our memories alive again, and if minimizing the more daunting parts of the practice gets more people involved, then I’m all for it.

So, how do casual photographers make better images? By remembering that you are not a security camera. You don’t happen on a scene, pointed in whatever direction you find yourself, and just start clicking. You’re a human being, with your view of the world, your experiences, your own priorities, and your own concerns. Your photos should reflect the things you care about.

I am always working to be a better photographer. More than any other skill set, this is the one I want to master. Looking forward to bringing you along on the journey.

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

 -Robert A. Heinlein

I don’t properly recall when I first encountered this quote. I can no longer remember if I’d had the idea to pickup blogging again when I came across it, or if seeing this quote prompted me to want to blog about learning to do new things. At any rate, the quote and the blog idea have coalesced and you, good reader, have joined us here. 

So, what’s this all about?

I love learning. I like it in formal academic structures, and I love it when you fall down the YouTube rabbit hole and emerge with an understanding you didn’t have before.

I’m grateful to live in an age where so much information is available. From tutorials in Illustrator to TED talks, to demonstrations of metalsmithing, a quick Google search yields mounds of information I can mine for knowledge.

Learning and applying what I’ve learned is the only way I know that we can reach our full potential. It doesn’t matter the arena: academia, faith, practical living. Working to strengthen ourselves across disciplines helps us develop into fully-formed and fully-capable women and men.

I enjoyed school, and some of my fondest memories of childhood are distinct memories of uncovering a new skill or gaining competence in a task I’d been working at. I pursued a bachelor’s in journalism because being a reporter is essentially getting to be curious for a living. I went on to get a master’s in photojournalism because I couldn’t say no to getting to spend two full years learning more about one of my favorite subjects.

It appears full-time academia is behind me, but not a day goes by that I don’t make an effort to learn something. My next planned learning will be learning to weld. I’d like to combine metal work with woodworking to expand my ability to make furniture. Other topics you’ll find here will include my ongoing commitment to becoming a better photographer as well as cooking, videography, periodic book lists, some travel, and some observations on the world around me.

Welcome.