I stared daily and with great reverence at images of their lives before the nursing home. I was enthralled to see wedding photos from a half a century prior – from a completely different world. In their small, two-to-a-room living space they did not display much; an afghan, stuffed animals from grand children, a book or two if they could still read, the Bible (regardless of if they could still read or not) one photo by the bed (usually of a spouse) and often a collage of photos. Seventy-five years or more whittled down to a 16×20 poster board space of memories.

I think about this often when I complete a photo session. These are the images that that they will treasure most. These images they will carry with them and hold on to with all of their might where ever life leads and to its end. These images will help them remember when remembering is an endangered species.

I am so grateful to every person who brings me into their home, their family and into that sacred space in their hearts to capture what is most important to them. I’ve considered this more over the past year, as several of the people who have ushered me into the warm space of “home” have had to say good bye to those that share a place in their souls and therefore a spot in the portraits. Knowing that I was the final person to capture their identity is humbling. It brings me profound joy to offer, not just a photo, but a memory. For that I want to say thank you to all of the people who have welcomed me into their hearts and homes.

I’m often inspired by Mary Oliver, whose words hang like a creed nailed to my heart:

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

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A poem I wrote for the service:

The Places We Find Those That Carry On

Dad I found you in the pages

Of the Encyclopedia of Organic Gardening

Behind tomato cages of concrete reinforcement wire

And black and white illustrations

Of garden plans.

You were many things.

You taught me people are many things.

Today I choose to remember you this way:

Giver of life

In the planted and plotted,

Buds and suckers

And a life pruned over a lifetime

Hoping – working for a better yield.

Dad, I found you in the sleeves

of 78s and 45s.

Sometimes in-between the Rolling Stones and The Carpenters,

Between Jimmy Dorsey and The Supremes,

Simon and Garfunkle and Chicago

Or Johnny Mathis and Johnny Cash.

God, I hate Johnny Mathis.

Yet, he takes his place among the rest,

Proof that I love you.

Because my Father’s record collection

Is not my Father’s record collection

Without an occasional verse or voice

Or note I’d rather not hear.

Today I choose to remember you this way:

A masterpiece symphony

In a cacophony and unresolving chords.

Listen to the words:

An offering of meaning

For the things we, ourselves cannot articulate.

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