My Pilgrimage, My Way

My book, f/16: One Woman’s Journey to Bring Life Into Focus has taken a few twists and turns and needed space and time to come together. I figure it’s time to sneak preview a chunk of it; well, at least its beginnings. This seems so very far away now —  a good sign I guess, that the distance traveled, in every way, has all been worth it. 

 For those of you wondering, f/16 is an aperture setting on a camera that allows for more depth of field in a photograph. It’s also a reference to the sixteen women I met to bring this book together; photojournalists who helped me to read the light again; to remain open and strong while allowing the world to reveal itself. Cause this is their way…. 

f/16

 THE BOX

 You may not realize it, but every time you bring your camera up to your eye you’re making decisions about composition. Simply put, composition is how you choose to frame the picture you’re about to make. ~ 

      Dragging the heavy cardboard box outside into the sunshine, I struggle to remember what’s inside. This was the box left behind, stored away in a friend’s basement after packing our belongings and sending them off to Canada. Kathrin gently reminded me of its presence when I arrived. ‘Perhaps while you’re here, pick a sunny day, take that last box outside and go through it to see what you need’. I’m staying at her home near Zurich while my two daughters visit their father who still lives here in his native Switzerland. The box had been taking up space in their basement for a year and a half now. She was right, it was time for me to deal with it.

          With a knife I slice open the packing tape and tentatively peel back the flaps. On top is a decorative hat made by one of my daughters in art class. This must be the box of things too fragile to ship, I’m thinking as I gently remove the hat, wondering what lies beneath. Peering in I find, layer upon layer, the many paintings and drawings made from kindergarten through grade school. The ones I could never throw away.

          Beneath the art, at the box’s core is something solid, heavy. It’s a black case that I immediately recognize. I remember. The strength mustered to drag the box into the fresh spring air dissolves as I anticipate the case’s contents. Sitting down on a cement wall, perching its bulk on my lap, I gently unzip its sides, causing photographs to fall to the pavement at my feet. Precious images of little girls in princess costumes, riding bicycles and holding pet rabbits; those of daddy and his daughters with the majestic, powerful Alps as backdrop splay around me. Mixed in are other images. One of my ex-husband in the mountains of Lesotho in Southern Africa from the time we’d met when I worked as a photojournalist in South Africa. Others, a right-wing Afrikaaner with arms in the air, moments before his execution, and one of me, in a flack jacket, flanked by South African soldiers, confront me.

          Finally, scattered on the box’s floor are heaps of photos and negatives, all taken at any given time over the last eighteen years. After I remove each one individually, I sit motionless, staring at the chaotic stack in front of me — an abandoned game of cards after all hands have folded. If only it had been a game. This was the box of things too difficult to bring forward; it was all that was just too much. Moving ahead without them for a time created a buffer, one that allows me now, one image at a time, to endure. In a long game of solitaire I hold each photo for a time, allowing memories to wash through me. By recognizing pairs and sequences that no one else could have possibly seen, I am bit by bit, being pieced back together. Not until I’m finished do I begin to understand, it was I who held the camera. There was someone who existed outside the frame of all of these photographs who was strong enough to stand in the world bearing witness to all she loved and all she feared.

          Putting most of the photos neatly back into the box ready to be shipped, I choose several of my kids with their father, some of the children alone, and a handful of my ex father-in-law who recently passed away.  I put them in a large envelope. Tomorrow, I’ll give them to my daughters, to give to their father. I don’t know why. It’s the only hand I feel I have left to play.

                                                              JUST ‘OTHER’       

              Before he left, our daughters bought pouches and filled them with small stones for him to carry. Dropped from their palms were a rose quartz, an agate and bloodstone offering him both love and protection. Wrapped around the stones was a note from me, a bandage holding tight the wounds that had not yet begun to bleed. My message wasn’t original, just words about a field and forgiveness, said best by Rumi. I knew it was us he was questioning, our marriage and what it meant to him. He’d made this clear. I could only let go as I watched him gather his families hopes and dreams in his pockets and set out to meet himself. He hadn’t been asking for permission. This was solely about him.

          Little girl’s fingers left smears on a wrinkled sheet of paper that was taped to the kitchen wall. It was a map pulled from his pocket before leaving on his journey; handed to our daughters age eight and ten for them to follow the pilgrimage he was taking through Northern Spain. At first glance it appeared so utterly basic, a display of my husband’s intentions that shows absolutely nothing of what was happening to the life of our family. It was December of 2008 and he was to walk the Camino or what is also known as the Way of St. James to hold back the years, renew a spirit that hasn’t yet found what it was searching for.  As he left, embracing me at the train station, he said, “I love you, I hope I work out my shit,” neither his lips nor eyes met mine. I was scared but I had respect for what he was doing. 

          As our daughters traced his route, the places, Pamplona and Logrono became real to us as did his pain. “My feet are freezing and my knees are aching.” The pilgrim with a cell phone relayed to his family. It was December and cold. This trek, this road to Santiago normally takes people a month to complete, if not longer but it was never his plan to walk the entire way. He didn’t have that kind of time to work out his shit. I awaited his decision around Burgos, where he was probably making a plan to accelerate; depart from the path he was on and take a bus toward the ceremonial end where seekers arrive at the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. 

          One needs to walk the last one hundred kilometers to earn the Compostela or official certificate. The pilgrim can state whether the goal of his or her Camino is ‘religious’, ‘religious and other.’ or just ‘other’. “Just other” would have sufficed. It was enough for the pilgrim office and it would have been enough for me yet he insisted, by way of explanation to our daughters, that he was going to a place where people who believe in God go to figure out their lives. I’d never heard him speak this way before. God had never been a focal point in our family, at least not been used as a reason to do anything, 

          Late one night another text came in. His backpack has been stolen and he was at a police station. Some considerate pilgrims from Brazil had lent him clothes and even money. It was three in the morning but I didn’t question the strange hour. I just thought of him in a cold police station, exhausted and thinking of me. An hour later as the phone laid next to me in bed, where he used to lay, it chimed and a text came in. My eyes met the screen of my flip phone and I read, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, it’s me who needs to change. I love you.” 

          The gasp of air allowed, as I surfaced into the world again was brief. Within a day I eddied, taken down again by my husband’s narrative. With Christmas less than two weeks away, while shopping for gifts, another message from him came in:  “I’ve decided I’ve had enough of these so-called pilgrims. I’m checking into an all-inclusive resort in Tunis. Hope you aren’t too disappointed.” 

          In retrospect, I can only guess that text was meant to explain the suntan he was going to come home with and the pounds he kept on rather than shed. The day he returned he asked us to pick him up at Zurich’s main train station. My children ran to him; I received a hug and kiss from arms and lips that felt like they’d travelled far away but missed the return flight.

          My husband sat next to me in my car asking if he looked “enlightened.” The mere fact that he was asking told me otherwise, but I lied,  and weakly replied, “Yeah, you look good.”  

         As he excitedly told our daughters how he’d ridden horses on the beach, a sense of nausea enveloped me. The contrast in our emotions couldn’t have been more stark. Being held in limbo for the last few months, wondering if my family was about to fall apart, had been a personal hell—and it had been made that much more difficult by the mind-boggling fact that my husband was coming home just two days before Christmas. His light and breezy mood was emoting neither sympathy for what I’d been through nor reconciliation. It was something else—something outside the realm of emotions I’d been anticipating. Whatever was going on with him, I felt, it had very little to do with me. 

          Our daughters were asking questions from the backseat, but their father was struggling to answer them, unable to remember the names of the places we’d been tracing on the map he’d given us of Spain. 

            “That place where they run the bulls, Pamp . . .”

            “Pamplona,” I awkwardly finished his sentence for him.

              Staring straight ahead, I drove through the streets of Zurich, where holiday shoppers were out in full force. The city, to me, is one of the most beautiful in the world; its old buildings, steeples, and narrow streets appear to be designed specifically for the perfect Christmas scene. In the old town, a market sprawls, offering up baked goods and Glühwein to keep shoppers warm during the holidays. Next to the lake, people young and old gather in a tent around vats of warm liquid beeswax, and make candles. This activity had become a family tradition of ours over the years: with a long wick looped over our fingers we would dip into the vat, patiently pause to let it cool, then dip again—sometimes for hours. Even as our feet became cold and our bellies began to rumble, the vision of what we were creating impelled us to keep going. Time passed; layer upon layer strengthened what was once a spindly string into a form capable of emitting light and warmth. 

           Today, we returned to our house—the one we’d bought just two years prior—and I tried to read the signals, looking for the warmth that should come from someone who’s left his wife on tenterhooks as he contemplated life for the past three weeks. The man who had been my husband seemed to have disappeared, and I was quickly becoming aware that I would never have a sense of that person again. His actions were not one of a father returning for Christmas—he was already a step ahead of the holidays, if not twenty. His first priority when he returned was to get bindings mounted on a new pair of skis, even though we hadn’t even spoken about going on a trip to the mountains.

          The obvious conversation that had to take place—the one that was the culmination of three months of being held in limbo—was left to me to instigate. “When are we going to talk?” (When are you going to put this nightmare to an end?) I finally asked.

          We sat together on the sofa, and he spun a disingenuous tale of how he figured out it was time to unravel himself from the fabric of our family (though he said it in a far less poetic tone). If I were to try to remember it verbatim, I’d fail. My mind was spinning trying to make sense of what was being said. I strained to hear something real, something authentic to help me focus. Eventually I did. With absurd yet heartbreaking clarity, this moment of my life was defined, in one sentence, by my husband.  “I don’t want this, I want to travel, see other cultures” 

           How could anyone who had ever known me, yet alone loved me ever say such words?  In an instant, I was faced not only with his callous indifference but the immediate impulse to survive this by taking responsibility for the things I’d neglected that had once been fundamental to my character. “This is not my story.” I kept saying to myself as I felt my world shatter around me. 

          The day before Christmas, at dinner, while my husband slept off what later I would learn was jet lag, I had to address my daughters’ questions and tell them that Daddy wasn’t back—that he was leaving. I asked him to stay until December 29th, to help with the kids. He initially agreed, but by the 27th he had grabbed his skis and headed out the door.

          Things weren’t adding up at first; it was the cliché credit card statement that ultimately gave it away. Initially I paid little attention to it—my husband may be going through a midlife crisis, but I thought I knew what he was and wasn’t capable of. I mean, who would make up a story about doing a spiritual pilgrimage and think they could get away with it? Furthermore, the entries on the American Express bill were in Spanish, that made sense since he’d been in Spain—right? 

          It was during a very long and confused call to my mother in Canada, late one night, that I was prompted to retrieve the statement to take a more careful look. Before a long list of charges was a currency I didn’t recognize. It was neither that of the Swiss Franc or the Euro. With my finger (the one that had been following a map of Southern Spain for the last three weeks) I scanned a particular transaction, one from a women’s boutique . . . in Argentina. On closer examination, I realized that none of the transactions were from Spain. All of them—including hotels, restaurants, and shops—had been charged in Argentina. My husband had been there for the past three weeks, and he’d been there with the woman he’d been having an affair with for quite some time. There were no cold toes or aching feet; no stolen backpacks. The only revelations stemming from his journey were the ones slamming into me full force as I shakily told my Mom I had to go. 

            “Did God tell Daddy to leave us?” 

              It was Jemima, staring up at me in the cold light of the next day. Of my two daughters, she is the one who always has a question and is never satisfied with a quick answer. What are the rules here, I wondered. He had done whatever he wanted so what were the rules?  How am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to say? The responsibility I felt was crushing but it also brought clarity; not for the state of our family but to be as true to myself and daughters as I possibly could. In the absolute silence after my daughter’s question, this certainty pressed through me. 

It’s never left.

 

Visit the FB page for f/16 at: f/16

What’s Happened To Me?

For those of you who’ve been orbiting this adventure and catching a few FB posts, it may not yet be clear what exactly it is, that I’ve been up to. The same, in a sense, goes for me. ;) The path hasn’t always been clear but I’ve been following one, nonetheless, that takes me back to a time in my life when I worked as a photojournalist. It’s essentially to regain a sense of being in the world that I, for some reason or another, let slip away. This is why you’ve seen FB posts of photojournalists, whom I’ve met over the last couple of years, doing amazing and incredible work all around the world.

Anyway, this week, I happened across a few articles that I wrote some eleven years ago while living in Switzerland that, quite astonishingly, remind me of just how long I’ve been searching to “regain the spirit.” I kind of throw myself under the bus with this piece entitled, “What’s happened to me?” but here goes.  At the time of writing, I was regularly contributing to a parenting magazine called “The New Stork Times” (yes, you read that correctly). It’s not going to make it into the pages of f/16 but it’s entirely relevant and I feel compelled to post it. 

Here’s a quote for ya, “Somewhere, at some time, there has to be an integration of who we once were and the life we are now leading”.  I said that, not yesterday but over a decade ago and in the context of this journey, that has become f/16, it gives me goosebumps (and a bit of a kick in the pants). If you enjoy it, I may dig up a few more…..

Grand San Bernardino weeks before leaving Switzerland

Grand San Bernardino weeks before leaving Switzerland

From the September 2003 issue of The New Stork Times:

Where am I? I’m not talking about the physical surroundings, I’m talking about me, the person inside a body that is simultaneously taking on house, kids, kindergarten, playgroup, extracurricular activities, marriage etc. Remember those days when you were convinced that all the experience you were gaining pre-marriage, pre-kids, was going to get you through the tough stuff later on? That the life-enriching smorgasbord of a world that you were feasting upon was going to make you one heck of an interesting person and a kick-ass Mom? Then the family whirlpool begins: you’re adhering to feeding times, nap times, completely preoccupied by the hours of sleep they’re getting and the one’s you’re not. Life is eddying about you while you lay sprawled over the plug hold clinging to a personality that’s being sucked down the drain.

“So what do you guys do — I mean in your spare time?”

My husband and I were on our first weekend away without our kids. I hadn’t been away since I was nine months pregnant with three year old Jemima. An American dinner guest at the wedding we were attending in Lugano, was curious about our life in Switzerland.

“Like, what are your hobbies?”

My mind went blank. Surely, I thought I could think of something to say. I heard myself mutter. “We have kids. Umm, two. They’re young…five and two.”

He nodded understandingly but my answer registered on his face as being quite insufficient.

Surprisingly, to me, my reply was enlightening as I struggled to think of something I, myself, enjoyed. I started to feel like a high school graduate applying for my first ‘real job’ with an embellished Curriculum Vitae. Hobbies, hmmm, well, I like to read (not a lie, I’ve gone through seven different books just this week, who has to mention the author’s were Dr. Seuss, A.A. Milne and Lewis Caroll. I love travel (I live in a foreign country doesn’t that speak for itself?) Skiing. (Haven’t skied upright without a kid between my legs for five years but have mastered this backbreaking technique). Photography (drawers full of snaps of my kids that will some day be put in an album). Oh yeah, and let’s not forget —learning about other cultures — even if it is an every day survival tactic living here in Switzerland.

The guest went on to talk about his horseback riding experiences and I went into hyper self-analysis.

What’s happened to me? My kids are at an age when it’s getting easier to do things. The routine is changing. They’re capable of so much  more and I, as a Mom have to pick up the ball and move into new territory, so to speak.

I used to dread even the thought of a holiday. Honestly, with all the challenges of adapting to a new country with small children in tow, why would I want to take this show on the road and go to yet another new place? I’d much rather stick to my house and work at the somewhat fragile roots I’ve planted. I wasn’t proud of this attitude but quite frankly, it’s where I was at.

But, now I realize things have got to change. This is when it should all kick in — where we draw upon life as it was rather than gripe over how much life has changed since having kids. Somewhere, at sometime, there has to be an integration of who we once were and the life we are now leading.

Am I getting too philosophical? I’m up late. It’s when I think best. It’s when I think! I’ve taken to enjoying this time after all have gone to sleep and the house is quiet. I absolutely, with all my heart appreciate a silent house. Original thoughts fight for their rights inside my head. As I gradually concede the worries of the day, flow away. I’m tempted to veg, to turn on the TV and not think too seriously. Contemplating my options. BBC, CNN..a German flick to see what little bit of the language I can now actually pick up, I eventually put down the remote.

I think about what I remember of family life as a kid. Mostly, I remember the holidays. The day to day stuff is mostly a blur but the family activity is the manna that enlivens my memory. Living in a new country is, in a sense (to steal a phrase), like being a perpetual tourist*. If only we could adopt that curious, fresh perspective and apply it to every day; convey that sense of trying something new to our kids without focusing only on our limitations. Somewhere within all of that emerges someone I’m familiar with; someone who isn’t doing all the things she once did but who has regained the spirit that made her want to do them in the first place.

*”Perpetual tourist” is term used by Paul Bilton in his book of the same name, ‘The Perpetual Tourist‘ — published by Bergli Books

 My book on Swiss Culture: Culture Smart: Switzerland

f/16

9603907-camera-lensf/16, is a memoir. It began as a book about women who are photojournalists but evolved, out of necessity and the encouragement of some incredible people, into a narrative that also includes me. And, so too has the title evolved. f/16 is a setting on a camera’s aperture. There’s something known as the “sunny f/16 rule” that assists with correct exposure of difficult subjects. This aperture setting also allows for increased depth in an image. f/16 also represents the sixteen women who are photojournalists whom I spoke to over the course of a couple of years. They are the pillars of this book, holding their focus on the world while I, in a sense, had to learn to read the light, all over again. It took me awhile to figure out my own approach to writing about women in the world (the photographers and those photographed), but I have. Today, I thought I’d share the prologue. Just days before the idea for this book began to take hold, this is what was going on:

Prologue

Dragging the heavy cardboard box outside into the sunshine, I struggle to remember what’s inside. This was the box left behind, stored away in a friend’s basement after packing our belongings and sending them off to Canada. Kathrin gently reminded me of its presence when I arrived. ‘Perhaps while you’re here, pick a sunny day, take that last box outside and go through it to see what you need’. I’m staying at her home near Zurich while my two daughters visit their father who still lives here in his native Switzerland. The box had been taking up space in their basement for a year and a half now. She was right, it was time for me to deal with it.

box 3With a knife I slice open the packing tape and tentatively peel back the flaps. On top is a decorative hat made by one of my daughters in art class. This must be the box of things too fragile to ship, I’m thinking as I gently remove the hat, wondering what lies beneath. Peering in I find, layer upon layer, the many paintings and drawings made from kindergarten through grade school. The ones I could never throw away.

Beneath the art, at the box’s core is something solid, heavy. It’s a black case that I immediately recognize. I remember. The strength mustered to drag the box into the fresh spring air dissolves as I anticipate the case’s contents. Sitting down on a cement wall, perching its bulk on my lap, I gently unzip its sides, causing photographs to fall to the pavement at my feet. Precious images of little girls in princess costumes, riding bicycles and holding pet rabbits; those of daddy and his daughters with the majestic, powerful Alps as backdrop splay around me. Mixed in are other images. One of my ex-husband in the mountains of Lesotho in Southern Africa from the time we’d met. Others, a right-wing Afrikaaner with arms in the air, moments before his execution, and one of me in a flack jacket flanked by South African soldiers, confront me.

Finally, scattered on the box’s floor are heaps of photos and negatives, all taken at any given time over the last eighteen years. After I remove each one individually, I sit motionless, staring at the chaotic stack in front of me — an abandoned game of cards after all hands have folded. If only it had been a game. This was the box of things too difficult to bring forward; it was all that was just too much. Moving ahead without them for a time created a buffer, one that allows me now, one image at a time, to endure. In a long game of solitaire I hold each photo for a time, allowing memories to wash through me. By recognizing pairs and sequences that no one else could have possibly seen, I am bit by bit, being pieced back together. Not until I’m finished do I begin to understand, it was I who held the camera. There was someone who existed outside the frame of all of these photographs who was strong enough to stand in the world bearing witness to all she loved and all she feared.

Putting most of the photos neatly back into the box ready to be shipped, I choose several of my kids with their father, some of the children alone, and a handful of my ex father-in-law who recently passed away.  I put them in a large envelope. Tomorrow, I’ll give them to my daughters, to give to their father. I don’t know why. It’s the only hand I feel I have left to play.

Please also visit the book’s Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/WhatItMeantToMeMemoir?ref=hl

Pulling the Thread

“One day it will be Christmas! Not some day… one day.”

The photojournalist Victor Matom’s booming voice resonates across the New Nation news room. The year is 1993 and his country, South Africa, is lurching toward democracy; anticipating the first all-race elections only months away.

Victor worked freelance for the paper I was volunteering for. He took the time to show me the kids he was teaching photography to in the townships and introduced me to a woman named Ethel Mabala who was caring for over 100 children in a her small home in Soweto. We happened to be among the first on scene when right-wingers were gunned down in the homeland of Bophuthatswana, weeks before free and fair elections were declared. Continue reading

Monsoons of Change. Guest Post for Laura Zera.

Hey everyone. I’m trying something new today and have picked up a guest-blogging gig with an old pal. I know Laura from the days when we danced to the African Jazz Pioneers at a Shebeen in the suburbs of Johannesburg while South Africa moved toward its first democratic elections. Who knew eighteen years later we’d be blogging authors still intrigued with the whole idea of connecting cultures. Kinda fun. Laura’s the author of a really cool book called Tro-Tros and Potholes that chronicles her solo adventures through West Africa. She’s now working on a second book, a very touching memoir about being raised by a schizophrenic mother.

It’s a pleasure to invite you to read my post about travels to Myanmar http://laurazera.com/?p=928

Program Mode — Not an Option

I’ve been bobbing to the surface as waves of jet-lag wash over me. From a muggy S.E. Asian climate I’ve flown to crisp and chilly mornings in Banff; a good sleep finally affords me an extended breath of fresh mountain air and I’m feeling good. Good enough to sit down and make sense of the last five weeks.

Five photojournalists whom I’ve been trying to peg down for the book were to be in one place, Chiang Mai Thailand for the Foundry Photojournalism Workshop. Once I found out, I had to go. FPW takes place in a different locale every year; previously taking place in Mexico, India, Turkey and Argentina. Next year will take them to Sarajevo. I booked our flights only three weeks before take-off, somewhat apprehensive about the idea of flying across the globe merely to sit down for a conversation with five women. Skype may have sufficed, but in my heart I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Continue reading

It Matters

I’m not going to tell the whole story here — these pages are not meant for this.

From the onset, I didn’t want to make this book about my divorce — no messy details I said. This is going to be about my life as it is becoming; not what it was and certainly not what someone else is trying to make it. And, I stand by that. Today though, I walk the edge.  I’ve awoken to more s**t — stuff from my Ex I thought was of the past. Legally, I’m trusting things will be OK but it’s been enough for me to question how I will accomplish all that I need to. It’s a stumbling block that’s all.

I’ve been writing today about the amazing photojournalists I interviewed over the last few weeks. Keeping focused on their words helps ground me but I still have more to meet; many more stories to pull together. Continue reading

A Divorce, Two Kids and the World Out There to See

In theory my book project on women and photojournalism started when I began research about ten months ago. In reality, I believe it’s beginning right now 20 minutes to seven on March 13th as I write the first words of my blog. I’m sitting in the performing arts center in Calgary where National Geographic photographer Annie Griffiths is about to take the stage. Despite not yet setting eyes on Griffiths, I’ve already opened my laptop eager to put some words down before the lights dim.

Preparation, so far, for my book has been a lot of research and emailing to make the all important contacts with photojournalists working all over the globe. Yesterday had been a routine day scouring sites on the net. After arriving on a site showing the photography of Ami Vitale, I quickly shot her a note explaining the idea for my book, Intimate: Women in the World as Witnessed By Top Female Photojournalists. Continue reading

Women in Photojournalism

At the time I was reaching out to female photojournalists around the world with the quest of writing a book, two of their male colleagues had fallen in Libya. I worried that my queries were ill-timed. They were coming together in solidarity to mourn their loss. I didn’t expect a response for some time. I was wrong.

Within a day, the replies came. The first was Barbara Davidson who had just found out she’d been awarded her third Pulitzer Prize:

“Sounds really interesting, I’d really like to be a part of this book project. Keep me posted and thanks for thinking of me. Best b”.

Next it was Andrea Bruce.

“I would be happy to be included. Let me know if you want to chat some….at the moment I’m in Mexico.”

On her heals, Holly Pickett —

“Sure, I’d love to be part of your book project. I haven’t read the articles yet, been distracted today by the death of a colleague and I can’t really think about anything else. But if Andrea signed off on it, I know it’s a good thing.” Continue reading