When I was a high school photography teacher, I’d joke and say the kids should get foreign language credit for my class. After this year, I realize I wasn’t joking at all.
The articulation of things that language cannot touch is something I have missed, entirely.
Photos as poems
Photos as evidence
Photos as a cry out in prayer
piercing through the noise
of endless pandemic earthquakes,
cracking everyone’s world in half
again and again
just as we finish the last stitches
holding it all together.
My camera has always been the only way to weaponize my fierce hope in an acceptable way.
I miss being covered in mud and river, night after night, the moon witness to magic.
(Thank, you Chali. I love you so much and am so grateful for our friendship.)