It's been a strangely long winter. And we've had a lot of snow, which, in fact, is the ideal background for compost. Pruned houseplants, torn newspapers, & banana peals can make a person's day. My friend who runs the local landfill says that snow can hide many sins. It can also make the edge of an avocado peal or the crust of stale bread come to life. I was curious what images I had created in past winters. This was the only Compost Composition I saved from February 2016. Doesn't the gray blue dryer lint look cool with the cilantro and rainbow chard stems, banana peels & snow? These
orange rinds, Sodoku & snow with, it seems, more dryer lint, feel cheerful & strangely innocent. When I created this in February of last year, I had no idea what lay ahead, nor how grateful I would be for quiet and beautiful moments with compost and my camera. At some point in 2020, I lost my way. The turmoil went to my head and to my heart and I froze. Thankfully, though, the compost pile beckoned. The colors, textures and yes, the pungent odors kept things real and reminded me of the beauty of it all. I am grateful for extended time with my family and with my thoughts. Light emerged on the other side of dark, and we just kept showing up for each other. The dailiness of watermelon & houseplants that needed trimming invited calm in the midst of brewing storms. And I voted. We voted. Hope. And the Christmas Cactus bloomed at Thanksgiving as it does every year. And we finally bid farewell to my mother-in-law's pressed leaves and rhyming dictionary she used to write holiday poems. It was
a messy, smelly and uncomfortable year, but it will be impossible to forget 2020 and the good that will emerge from the all of it. In 2021 I'm practicing stillness. Is standing still in moving water & the changing light a place of stillness? Does a photo shoot in a bog wearing wet moccasins cause me to pause? If it weren't
for these moments from 2020, I would not even be asking these questions. Lines on a log in late afternoon. The same light gives pink silk & lace an orange hue. It is a new year, so I explore my 'old favorites' folder & find color... ...& the warming power of orange during dark days. Pollinators will return. Cherry tomatoes will pop in my mouth during harvest time. The sun
will rise and set and I will drink a toast to you, for showing up and caring. Be well in 2021. Pressed leaves - - so easy to collect & so simple to compost. National Geographic, not so much. Each year, eleven pounds of images from around the world. But last week, it was time for this collection of stories and images to move on, to mix and mingle with holiday wrappings and old bills. Our children did not plow through them, as I once did, and no library wanted them. This 450 pound collection was, in fact, a burden from another era. When I returned from the recycling center, I was not surprised to experience an increased flow of fresh air in my studio - - The shelves, lighter and more open, an invitation. We were managing the clutter we brought home from my mother-in-law's house, which we had cleared out three years ago. It was time to say farewell to her pressed leaves, National Geographics and her dog-eared rhyming dictionary. The
compost absorbed all of it, including the expectations of creating the perfect turn of phrase in a gift card, thank you letter or speech at the garden club. In our pile, the leaves & this book will nourish new growth in a new year & maybe even inspire new ways of thinking post 2020. |
Lyn Swett Miller
reframing the narrative, one day, one image at a time Let's ReFrame: By Degrees
A place where photographer Lyn Swett Miller considers wonder, joy and transformation in a complex world. Archive
September 2021
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