Friday night I couldn’t sleep. I let nothing but the sound of the wind and rain fill my thoughts and when I opened my eyes again it was grey out, barely light, not raining. I got up to coffee and the quiet of no kids in the house. At the soccer field I watched Sophie play, all serious and grumpy about not scoring, and then reffed a U-12 boys’ soccer game. Partway through, the sky opened up and a whole summer’s worth of rain fell on us in just a few minutes. They didn’t call the game right away, so I got to spend several happy minutes listening to the shouts of delighted boys running in the mud. I was able to keep watch on the ball and on the players (I have to call offside) and still put my face up to the sky a little bit. It was grey and cold and wet and muddy and I had so much fun running up and down the touchline with the kids that I was disappointed when we all made our way off the field. I got under a big old drippy tree and watched everyone running to their cars, raising umbrellas and covering babies with their jackets as they went.
I wished I had my camera even though I knew it was a moment I could only keep by paying close attention to what was unfolding. Photographing and writing about things doesn’t make them any more real, but I’m still compelled to record these moments that maybe no one else sees, or that might otherwise float by like they never happened – the stuff you witness when you are the only still one in the crowd.
All day I have been wanting to write about a perfect cup of coffee in a red mug. About sitting around in boxer shorts and a teeshirt, working, with my computer on my lap and the window open to let the air in, opera coming from the other room. About being able to really sleep soundly. About taking a short ride on the back of a motorcycle, holding onto a brand new skateboard for Lex’s birthday. About polenta with oven roasted tomatoes, asparagus wrapped in proscuitto and baked perfectly, too hot to eat yet but totally irresistable. About words and looks and questions and answers and the spaces between all those. About holding hands.
I know it seems very, very soon. I know that writing about it will be hurtful. But, I also know that this is my story, my choice of what to capture, my record. I want to record the beauty in my life, the surprises, the joy. I won’t apologize for being determined to be happy. And I can’t not write about it. It’s what I do.