Speaking of showing what you're feeling

This young man seemed to take exception to the music of the Spanish troupe performing at Bountiful's Summerfest International.

Perhaps he thought his father felt the same way.

Center of attention

For a couple of weeks this summer, all our entertainment revolved around one 13-pound bundle of life, our six-month-old grandbaby. It wasn't necessary to go to movies or play games or watch TV or read books. We only sat and watched and photographed her expressions, her reactions, her frustrations, her celebrations.

This is a good way to spend an evening.

Babies are different from older people because they haven't yet learned what we need to teach them. They haven't yet learned that you're not supposed to cry when you get hungry, you're not supposed to get fussy when you're tired and you're not supposed to pull away from someone you don't yet like.

Everything they are thinking and feeling shows on their face and in their actions.

And it's entertainment at best, education at even better.

You know if she likes you, or if she hasn't decided yet.

You know what she thinks of green beans.

You know when she's curious. And you know when she's unsure of what to think.

She'll learn to keep a straight face when served a food she doesn't like. She'll learn to keep her frustrations in check and her smiles polite. But until then, she sure is fun to watch.

Does anyone else find it odd...

...that it took $5.7 billion-with-a-B to support volunteerism in America?

It was hailed as a bipartisan success because both senators Edward Kennedy and Orrin Hatch supported it. And then President Obama signed it.

And while I can understand the need to give banks money to keep the financial system from collapsing and I can hope that the money given car makers will keep car dealers and car-part makers in jobs, and while I am willing to allow that money given to first-time home buyers and old-clunky car drivers might help things along in the flailing economy, this is one I don't get.

It seems to me, if I understand the definition correctly, and I think I do because it pretty much describes a major part of the last 28 years of my life, that a program to support volunteerism should cost ... $0.0 billion.

Or at least -- even with government supervision -- $5.7 million-with-an-M.

In the sand

Somebody was trying to send a message to God and thought the beach would be a good place to do it.


I can see their logic. Vast, open space where anything new garners attention, easy writing utinsel in a stick, good writing surface in the sand, and a finished message that faces directly to heaven.


You somehow, at some point, start thinking about God when you're at the beach anyway. Its vastness brings eternity to mind, its perfection makes you wonder about creation, its magnificence helps you know somebody put it there for you.


And so instead of writing John loves Jane, or building a sandcastle, someone wrote a short little note to God.


Here's what it said:


God,
Thanks for everything.
Please don't give up on us.
Love...

At the beach

I don't know this woman. But I know a little bit about her.

I know she's too unsteady to swim or wade in the water. I know her skin's too sensitive to get a lot of sun. I know she doesn't want to miss going anywhere even if it's a little harder to do anymore. I know she has family that love her enough to help her down the rocky slope of the beach. I know she's not too timid for the icy cold waters of Bear Lake. I know she knows how to relish every moment despite any limitation.

I don't know this woman. But I like her.

Baby duty

My brain is only working at one-third capacity this week since two-thirds of it is being taken up with my new responsibility: taking care of my six-month-old granddaughter while her parents move from the West Coast to the East Coast (they've got a job, found a place and are moving in as I write -- yeah for new adventures!).

One might think taking care of a baby is easy -- especially after one has done it four times in the past -- and very successfully, I might add. But it has been 22 years since my last foray into full-time mothering, and while I've found giving baths in the sink and getting that little spoon into that little mouth at just the right time has come back like riding a bike, I've also found that the associated worries and time limitations have come back as well.

Now my brain is focused on these questions: Is this a tired cry or a mad cry? If I pick her up will I spoil her or will I reassure her? Is she scratching her ear because she has an ear infection or because I inadvertently got a bit of water in it during bathtime? Should I let her sleep as soon as she rubs her eyes or should I get her on a schedule?

I've already called my neighbor the doctor once.

If I take a shower now will she wake up and start crying and I won't hear her? If she's finally asleep should I get everything done around the house that needs to be done or take a nap too?

I learned long ago to enjoy cold toast -- as long as you butter it before it gets cold, and to never, ever put milk on cereal. And I'm totally fine loading laundry with one hand while holding baby with another.

But I'm being reminded of a few more things I maybe forgot, or maybe missed the first generation around. And as I watch this new little miracle -- the baby of one who was once my baby -- it is a sweet to share in her discoveries.

Things I long ago stopped hearing -- like the rustle of leaves in the wind -- get her rapturous attention. Things I long ago stopped seeing -- like a car that rushes by -- are a fascination. Things I long ago stopped putting into my mouth -- like tablecloths and plastic storage lids... things I long ago stopped running through my fingers -- like the nap of a carpet -- are all new and interesting. Her new little eyes, ears and hands are an example to my old ones.

And when she puts a hand on each side of my face and nuzzles her forehead into mine, when she smiles at my smiles and tries to tell me something in her own little language, we make the greatest discovery of all.

Expanding your horizons

Photo workshops are for expanding your horizons and learning new techniques and being inspired by other photographers and going to beautiful locations and catching incredible shots.


All of that happened and more at my second workshop in the Olympic Peninsula. Earlier posts include shots from before and after the workshop (see "On the way") and sights in the town that was our headquarters for the three-day session (see "I am not making this up"). The shots below were culled from hundreds I took in the five locations we explored as a group. Along with the pictures are the lessons learned -- not necessarily all lessons that were taught -- but those that became evident in the moment.

Sol Duc Falls morning: Patience. Only a few of us were left on the trail by the time the sun made it through the trees and mist to warm this scene. I almost left too -- about five times -- but kept coming back thinking it was almost time -- until I caught this. Yes, the lights are blown out and the darks are too dark, but it's still an incredible scene. And I learned that photographers call these bursts of light, "God rays." I like that. And I liked waiting and earning them.

Ruby Beach sunset: Find your own space. There were about 15 of us, but very rarely did we see the same shot. As we arrived at a beach, we soon dispersed to all corners and spent the hours finding beauty in a place very different from the next person's take. I moved up off the beach for this shot through imposing Washington firs. It was a calm, colorful sky that night. We all got great shots -- each one as different as the person who took it.



Hoh Rain Forest morning: Look closer. We were surrounded by tall, tall trees, moss hanging down from every branch, ferns growing in the moss, on the ground, in the trunks; mushrooms, pinecones, lichen, birds. The rain forest was full of life. You could stand in one spot and be overwhelmed by the richness whether looking up or around. Then you could bend over and look at one little spot and be overwhelmed that something so grand was made up of tiny somethings so individually perfect.

Ruby Beach sunset: Stay steady. I'd left my tri-pod in another spot when this shot presented itself. Despite the example of my fellow photographers, I tended to wander rather than set up and wait. And despite their raised eyebrows, I took this shot without the support it would have been wise to have. But it worked. As did the F-22 aperture setting with the sun. If you're not wise, at least be steady.

Rialto Beach morning: Never be done. I was headed back to the car, needing to get started on the four-hour drive to catch my 1:30 p.m. flight from Sea-Tac. Time was of the essence and I'd already pushed the limits by getting up for the sunrise shoot at a beach 12 miles further away from the airport. But not only did I stop here, I stopped at a river along the way, a bridge, a pond and a lake. This shot ended up being my favorite at this beach. After wandering far down the shore looking at drift logs and seastacks, arches and gulls and eagles, I found the best shot when I was almost back where I'd started. Never be done. And never miss what's behind you. Or what's right where you started.