Blurred Vision

Taking this picture last week was supposed to chronicle the latest redesign project at La Casa de Demolition. What happened as I peered through the view finder watching the light play through the plastic dust curtain blowing softly in the breeze of the ceiling fan was not what I expected.

Suddenly, it seemed a metaphor to this journey called Grief.

I saw the sledge hammer as death itself having smashed my life to bits as represented by the shards…large and small...of sheet rock ripped from the closet framing littering the floor at my feet. To my eyes the frosted images of light that filtered through the plastic seemed to speak of the way in which my vision was fogged as I struggled to make sense of a world that was totally alien even in its familiarity.

Thinking on this, I pored through the myriad of folders full of pictures I’ve taken since beginning the rugged trek on this path 4 years ago. Surprised at the result, I found that I could attach a metaphor to widowed life to many that flicked before me on the screen.
My beloved and often fog shrouded Blue Ridge Mountains became the clouded vision I had of a world that seemed to be filled with one barely climbable mountain after another. The view was so vague I could not see my way out of the grey.
Always a water person, the river falls became the harsh reality of facing the daunting maelstrom in a canoe with neither paddle nor rudder to steer my way. I was at the mercy of my grief, never knowing which way it would turn or if it would drown me in its turbulence.
The waves crashing against the rocks near the shore morphed into the pain of being beaten and bloodied by the Grief Monster only to be left in a mangled heap upon the jagged reef begging for peace and mercy each time I fought to find my way out of the anguish that threatened to drown me.
A small cave in the beautiful New Mexico mountains of the Jemez came to represent that dark black hole into which I fell time after time struggling to live with the memories of a beloved life past and learning to survive in the hated present alone.

The ever present distance path seemed filled with roots and stones alive with the intent purpose of bringing to me to my knees as I stumbled ever forward in a world I came to despise.
Over time the world righted itself and became filled with light and color again…slowly at first…then gaining momentum…until I could appreciate the sight and smell of the wildness of the roses in my untended garden. Yet, another metaphor relating to my untended life.
I may often still stumble bruising my heart along the way, but no longer am I filled with dread and fear of the unknown waters that spread before me. Survival is instinct…one I have in more abundance than I ever imagined possible. Still, I know I did not get here alone. Along with my own dogged, though often halting, plodding forward, Jim’s love for me and life itself, kind friends and even strangers have given hand in helping me find my own strength to carry forward what he shared with me and even take the scary step to share it again with another wounded heart like mine.

What a surreal journey this continues to be.

Oh…Brave new world, indeed. As my dear New Mexico by way of Scotland friend would say.

Pictures have long been a means to add expression to my writing, but never quite in the way it did beginning with that photograph I took last week.

(All photos property of Outlaw Photography)