Today, I stopped by one of the Facebook photo groups to which I belong. I stayed to enjoy some of the recent shots there. Then I came upon a beautiful photo, and the note with it said “unedited”. Someone had posted a comment to the effect that “unedited photos are best” – and I moved on. It saddens me when groups erect barriers between members. Divisiveness is heartbreaking. Right away, all the other photographers – the ones who might pop the saturation a bit, or adjust lighting, or refine sharpness, or crop their shots to remove an unattractive detail, or reduce noise in the shadows, straighten a horizon line that’s tilted, remove a stray insect that has left a spot on the sky – are dismissed as being inferior somehow. Only those who create “unedited” shots and proudly declare this fact are to be applauded? Really?! What’s wrong with this picture?

Every photo is edited. As soon as it comes out of a camera and is converted to a JPEG file for printing or sharing, it’s changed from the way the camera initially saw it. It’s compressed and there is an automatic loss of detail. For many photographers, shooting in JPEG to begin with, their cameras have already applied editing of one kind or another. We can store the original RAW shots as TIFF files to avoid detail loss (as I often do) but few sites allow TIFF uploads. They are enormous files. But there is no unprocessed, raw shot ever posted on Facebook or anywhere else online that I know of. Not ONE. Even a cellphone shot – especially a cellphone shot! – has been processed by the phone’s own program. In many cases, heavily processed.

Therefore, I’m mulling over the implications of being party to a lie. And it IS a lie, no matter the motivations. People feel pressured to make claims that are simply untrue. I find this terribly discouraging. Why not just look at an image and enjoy it for whatever reasons it’s been shared? Or pass it by and go on to another? Why judge its merits on a false premise?

I don’t mind seeing people share their camera settings by way of information. This choosing of settings, too, is an editorial process but knowing the specifics can be helpful to others who are trying for similar effects. And all cameras have settings. One can see them by viewing them in whatever photo program is being used. Time, date, shutter speed, exposure time, ISO – all are there. Very useful details they are, indeed. And then there’s Image Stabilization. It eliminates a fair bit of camera shake; some of us have none-too-steady hands. So isn’t this an artifice as well? It’s certainly a form of assistance!

Still, there’s this implicit disdain for those who avail themselves of photographic tools and refuse to state otherwise. I wish I knew why this is happening. Ansel Adams manipulated his photos, decades ago. Nobody found them lacking or unworthy of praise. Why is it that now – with the remarkable technology that has been created for our use – it’s apparently wrong to take advantage of it?

Would we want to undergo abdominal surgery by kitchen knife as opposed to laser? Or refuse to refrigerate seafood and chicken because it’s not natural? Or entirely avoid our vehicles in order to travel on foot? Or paint only with our fingers because, well, brushes are artificial? Or write a book but reject the idea of proofreading for errors? I could go on but I’m sure that’s unnecessary.

Call me confused. And somewhat downcast as well. But at least I’m upfront. I edit my shots, period. I won’t try to fudge the issue by stating otherwise.

Here, by the way, is a photo I took this morning – overcast, calm, a tad dull. It was RAW to begin with and got converted to JPEG. I’ve post-processed it, of course, to share it here. How I did that, and what I chose to adjust, I won’t divulge because it shouldn’t matter. In any art form, the means to the end makes little difference. The end ought to be all that counts.

It’s been quite a year. And sometimes I sit and wonder which direction to take next. I’ve been mulling over the idea of not writing poetry any more; of setting aside my cameras; of moving into some new territory where I might find acceptance and peace – from myself as well as from others.

Life has become a competition: Who can write the best poem and win the top prize? Who can create the most amazing photos with the most public applause or “likes” on Facebook? Who can garner the highest level of support for his or her position/views/candidacy/social status? And increasingly, I wonder why some of us even bother to enter that gushing stream. I wonder why I, in particular, bother. It’s rocky and the water can knock us over. In the end, what’s left but to fall and get thoroughly wet?

If I define myself by “success” – whether it’s placing in a poetry competition or getting a ribbon for a photography prize or being named to some committee or other – that seems like a narrow sort of frame. Maybe it’s time to walk outside the canvas and head into unknown lands. My view is shifting. Success doesn’t mean what it once did. Maybe I’m just too old to be taken in by veneer. I want the real wood underneath, even if it’s rough and grainy.

I have many sins to count and correct – or at least to cancel somehow. Regrets. Atonement. Stubbed toes and twisted ankles. I’m not the person I was in my younger years; none of us can remain as we were. For me, this is a good thing. We can never go back again; we can change not a single blip of time past. We can only live in the moment and hope it will matter to someone.

A poem – like a photograph – is an in-the-moment sort of creation, which is probably why I’ve enjoyed writing this form or wandering around with a camera in hand. But still, I sit back and reflect on whether or not my own moments are worth recording. It seems egocentric. Writers in general are an egocentric lot, I think. We have to be in order to push out and tame those ideas and memories, like having too many babies and not quite knowing how to afford them. There’s an uneasy line between too much of self and not enough of it; between embracing the reader and retreating behind a barbed fence. More than any other genre, poetry bares us to everyone else. We pull out our still-beating hearts and lay them bloody on the ground at our feet. We’re either mad or out-of-touch or stuffily outdated. We draw in the trampling crowds and we also drive them away.

I’m a solitary soul these days. This, too, might be part of aging. Gradually, the companions of my way have fallen behind or wandered off the road and gone somewhere else. I still hear footsteps around me; I still watch tiny figures in the distance. Whether or not I join them, or they wait for me to catch up, I can’t say. Robert Frost spoke of stopping by woods on a snowy evening – alone except for his little horse – and he seemed okay with that. Some people make camp in those woods, sit in circles around cheerful fires, talk into the late hours, with mugs of hot chocolate or beer. I’m the one stopping to gaze among the trees but going no further than that.

Meanwhile, it’s cold outside and my house hasn’t yet acquired its morning coziness. I’m sitting here in stocking feet without so much as a fire in the stove. This, friends, is what being alone can do to a person. We simply forget to worry about things, even basics like striking a match or putting on slippers. And then younger folks call us senile. 

This ramble hasn’t taken me anywhere. My camera still sits at my elbow. The words still gestate in my head. A blue jay in the hedge reminds me of birds and baseball. Flight and defeat; hope and resignation. My empty coffee cup begs for attention. It’s unfilled – like me, I guess. I need to pour into it the steaming brew of bone-toasting joy. One gesture at a time, right? Then the fire, and the footwear. All is well with me; may it also be well with you.

I have been a widow for exactly three months now. “21” was always a lucky number for me and I chose it for any lottery card or game of chance that I played. I once won an enormous stuffed elephant on the wheel at a fair – can’t recall which one now – because I picked 21. But that number represents another event now. If one sees death as release from pain and suffering, and as a journey into another realm of light and healing, then it is still a number of good fortune. But perhaps not so much for anybody dealing with the aftermath of that release. It takes awhile to shift perspective.

I’ve stopped wanting to make phone calls that cannot be answered any more, or sort through yard-sale books in search of specific themes that would please another reader instead of myself. I walk through the rooms of our home in town and they feel empty of anything or anyone. It’s such a beautiful, cozy setting with its burnished wood floors and bright windows. I keep hoping that today – or tomorrow – the right person will walk in and say, “THIS is for me!” It needs to beat to the pulse of a new family. I’m not desperate financially, just hopeful to place this dear house with people who can build their future in it. And maybe walk the hiking trail as David so loved to do, while he still could.

“What would you do, while you still could?” is one of the questions always posted on ALS sites. David would have a ready answer: “I would WALK!” And walk, and walk. Bend his fingers, raise his arms, shout across the hills to hear his own echo. Yes, he’d do all those things. Simple things we don’t tend to think about.

David’s memorabilia – the prints he collected over the decades – still adorn the walls. Armies, ancient battles, ships of beauty and grace. All the history that he cherished. His rows of books wait for attention, carefully collected and arranged on shelves he built himself, just before his hands failed.

Then I stand above the river, here in the country where he so enjoyed spending the warmer months, and gaze across the water as he so often loved to do. His zero-gravity chair sits empty now. The hollowed grass where the dog curled up is grown back. Cash would lie in the shade next to David by the hour. I sometimes wonder what he thinks of this absence. How much he understands. Whether he has forgotten already or still waits for a return that can never come.

At night, the flowers glow on the little memorial cross until their solar power is spent. By the time I go to bed, it’s faded. Brief illumination in the darkness – like us, I suppose. We shine for our allotted span and then the shadows fold around us.

I’m learning to wear my changed status with greater comfort these days. Or at least with acceptance. I know there are no reversals, not unless some brilliant physicist unravels the true meaning of time and enables us to move freely on its continuum. That may come, but not yet. For now, we’re perched in the present. We feel the mist falling soft on our hair and breathe the sweetness of today’s lilies as they open. Every word I type here represents an increase in my age. This is irrevocable. In some future not imagined, I shall have my own significant date with an exit. Someone will recall that number with a certain sense of loss, regret, maybe even relief.

I can only pray that I’ll do good with the balance owing, between now and then. I need to cut through the clutter and clatter until I find what is most likely to make a difference. The rest is just extra layers. These can become heavy and pointless. Perhaps the greatest blessings, the finest gifts, have no weight at all.

The Life we have is very great.
The Life that we shall see
Surpasses it, we know, because
It is Infinity.
But when all Space has been beheld
And all Dominion shown
The smallest Human Heart’s extent
Reduces it to none.

– Emily Dickinson

Someone in my neighbourhood has either a car alarm or a house alarm that keeps going and going – it is the Energizer Bunny of alarm systems. It does this several times each day or night. Nobody appears interested in turning it off when this happens. I have timed it at 11:20 PM, in fact. It’s on so often now, Cash ignores it and won’t bark (he did at first). The sound isn’t all that bothersome to me personally, as it’s in the distance. Merely a curiosity. I have no idea who owns it.

But still … it suggests one of two things. Either we have a massive number of attempted break-ins here, which seems odd since this is a back road where everyone knows everyone and we keep our eyes on each other’s homes; or this is the most sensitive and possibly defective alarm system on the market.

However, if the whole point of having this feature is to alert us – or the police – to a potential intruder, and to act accordingly, wouldn’t it become redundant after awhile? If no one responds, and it’s just another local noise that we all accept as normal, what would happen in a REAL “situation”?

Just a rural ramble from my morning brain.

Enjoy your day! There’s so much happening in the area. The big Museum sale starts at 9, I think. We always attended that; David and I never wanted to miss it. We’d lug home all sorts of treasures. Last year it was an oil painting of two ships passing in the night. Countless books, collectibles, pet supplies, plants … you name it, we bought it. I got a doll for $2 and discovered her original, handwritten price tag dangling from one wrist: $195 before tax. David loved beautiful dolls, women or children dressed in vintage clothing. He was a Romantic at heart; he would have felt comfortable in the days of Keats and Wordsworth. Or even Queen Victoria – which was later but nonetheless, a fashionable era. He never failed to notice when someone was wearing a lovely dress – as opposed to my usual jeans and tee-shirts or other casual attire. In his head, he wanted to see me in lace and straw bonnet, trailing gauzy skirts and flowers. In my head, I wished that sort of garb would actually have suited me. Alas, my friends all know that if I were to show up looking like a “tea lady” from Maycomb, some sort of medication for my illness would not be far behind.

I tactfully refrained from mentioning that his own fashion statement consisted of tan cord pants with suspenders and a brown Argyle vest, often with checked shirt underneath. But clothes don’t always make the man, or the woman. They DO, however, make the doll!

So another annual sale has arrived. The ropes will be in place to prevent early birds from rushing the tables. There will be a constant murmur of chat punctuated by laughter, and not a few Timmie’s cups in hands waiting for their purchases. This year I will be staying home. I’m discovering that I have limits when it comes to crowds, and also to reawakening recent memories. I avoid big yard sales for the same reasons. I know I’d find many items that David would have so enjoyed having. I’d think, “I must pick this up for him.” Of course, I’d have to travel a LONG way for him to receive my bargains. As it is, at our Tusket Frenchy’s a few weeks ago, I bought a small framed print because it was just the sort of thing he liked, and he would have appreciated it – a carriage drawn by immaculate horses through what looked to be a nineteenth-century town. I felt he wouldn’t have wanted me to leave it behind. After 35 years of yard sales, I understand exactly what would have caught his attention.

I hung it on my wall as a posthumous offering of sorts. An acknowledgment that he still matters; that we all matter, because we were here and left out imprint on the fabric of the world. Memory in a thrift-shop frame.

Maybe in a few more months, crowds and flea markets and sales won’t daunt me. I wish I knew whether this is a regular occurrence among the recently-widowed? I wish we had a little support group I could attend, just to find out how to grieve. How to heal; how to tell myself that it’s all right if I skip a few once-favourite occasions. How to grasp when it’s time to buy just for me, and feel no frisson of guilt if I forget to include an unseen companion as I browse.

So go to the Yarmouth County Museum, folks. Buy lots of good stuff. Drag it home and gloat that you grabbed it before anybody else could get his or her mercenary hands on it. Have fun!! I hope the rain (badly needed) won’t descend until the sale is finished. This is an important fundraiser.

Next year, I do believe that I’ll be back!

As many who know me will attest, I tend to attract wildlife to my property. I feed whatever wants to eat my sunflower seeds and bread crusts and other scatterings. They are more than welcome to share what I have to offer.

The winter before last, a rat began to search for dropped seeds under my bird feeders. He was brown, of course, and not overly large. This is a rural area; we have rodents. I admired his shiny coat and noted his constant state of alertness. He wanted the benefits of my hospitality but he had no desire to pay for them with his life!

Eventually, he was joined by his smaller and humbler mate. She followed at a distance, careful not to intrude on his place at the feast. Both of them left neat tracks in the snow, and a trail that led beneath my rock-wall foundation. As there is no access to the basement on that side, I simply shrugged and kept refilling the seed supply. After all, the rats did not harm to me or mine. I must admit, though, to feeling more disturbed by the female’s secretiveness and her preference for shadows. The male was right out there, blatantly helping himself and enjoying the bounty. She – not so much. So I wondered what she was up to and what unhappy circumstances she might have set in motion.

All remained quiet for many months and I finally dropped my guard and forgot about these two. Not so long ago, however, I happened to glance out my living-room window and noticed a rather well-toned female rat ambling across the lawn. She navigated my flowerbeds and headed for the basement door – which, as luck would have it, was closed. Since I hadn’t seen either of my rat residents for almost a year, this one surprised me. She might have been a visitor, or one of the previous generation’s offspring. She appeared to be alone; possibly her partner had met his fate. This neighbourhood is a magnet for stray cats, which are taken in and fed by various caring souls. I’d assumed the cat population and the rat population had come to a disagreement. Not so, apparently. One can never assume anything where rats are concerned.

So now I must reassess my attitude toward these creatures. Others have warned me to beware of them. “Ew! They’re RATS. They carry diseases and they make such a mess.” I’ve usually responded with, “So do we.”

But a rat is a rat. Inevitably, she will revert to her true nature. And the thing is: I’ve encouraged her presence. I thought she would respect her boundaries. Clearly, I’m both naive and hopelessly trusting.

A rat will take advantage of any vulnerability. She will quietly intrude where her occupancy is neither wanted nor appropriate, simply because she can. And she might go unrecognized by the human family who have yet to discover her legacy.

The woman who invites a rat into her home – or tolerates that rat’s activities nearby – is only two steps away from being called a fool. Rats have no conscience. They don’t care whose lives and security they disrupt. They defecate on precious and irreplaceable parts of our existence, especially papers. We save letters, books, journals and cards; rats shred them and soil them. A rat can interfere not only with cleanliness and comfort but with communication itself. With memories that we have believed to be inviolate. Then we have little choice but to throw those memories in the trash. The woman who has tried only to be kind will find herself bereft of many things she cherishes. And her friends and loved ones will show her little sympathy. They will tell her that she has brought all this on herself.

Sadly, once established within the boundaries of home and family, a rat will prove tough to dislodge. If we are surrounded by creatures we love – cats, dogs, other pets – then poisoning such an animal is dangerous. The toxicity of our efforts will spread and infect everything. Love and companionship can easily die, while the rat simply slips away without remorse. We shiver at the toothmarks left behind on everything we hold dear, then bury our dead and wonder how we could have been so stupid.

A trap can present the rat with a challenge but most of the time, it won’t feel threatened. No rat ever felt guilty when confronted with a reminder that she has destroyed our peace and privacy; has ruined something within our home that can’t be easily fixed. The expression, “I don’t give a rat’s ass,” is spot-on. A rat couldn’t care less what pain or damage she causes. That’s just who and what she is.

And if you are reading this piece and wondering whether, in fact, it might be a tad allegorical – you’re very perceptive. Rats need not walk on all fours and drag their naked tails in the dust. They can stand upright, too, and seek out any evidence of weakness. They can exploit and destroy. Their very name is synonymous with someone who can neither be trusted nor admired.

I suspect this needs no further explanation. I’ve never met anybody who hasn’t encountered a rat now and then. Perhaps they’ve been put in our paths as a test of some sort? The trick is to figure out an effective answer to that particular question. I must admit to failure on that score.  Where the Giant Rat Quiz is concerned, I can’t even understand how to read it, let alone know what I’m expected to write.

This is a work-in-progress! I’ll be back later to begin. Thanks for your patience.

Brenda