There’s a jelly cabinet in the corner of our kitchen and Leah has it decorated with a small collection of sentimental family knick-knacks: Tiny wood and ceramic figurines from one of Leah’s dear aunts; a brass bell that Leah’s mother passed down to us; a feather and starfish we found on a special hike; and a photo that Leah shot 30 years ago of me, then a skinny marathon runner, holding Abell, a newborn.
Recently a young couple I know (I photographed their wedding several years ago) asked me to come to their home to take pictures of their newborn son (one of the resulting images is posted below.) Though many moons have come and gone since I held our own newborn in my hands, I remember the day he was born like it was yesterday. I can look at the picture Leah took and remember the smell of the old house we lived in, and the walks we did, carrying Abell around the block to show him off to neighbors. The picture that Leah took is not the only way I recall that time, but the picture certainly gives my brain a bit of a nudge.
I walk past the jelly cabinet and the picture gently reminds me not to take life for granted.
Though I make my living taking photographs and there are days when I’m editing a shoot and, quite literally, a thousand of my own images might flash past my eyes on my computer screen, I hope I never, ever, get so jaded that I forget what an amazing medium I work in.
This photography stuff is strong magic.
