Reflections on being brave

"Don't take the big camera out with you," I silently say to myself, "Just take the iPhone. Only the iPhone."

The clear light is so beautiful... and so fleeting.

My photographer's heart tries to argue with my head, "You could miss something really special and not have the good lens with you. You've got to go back and get the real camera... not this toy."

By this time, I'm out the back door and already seeing the first photographic opportunity as the sun shines hot and bright through the glimmering petals of newly bloomed snapdragon volunteers growing in a pot from last year's seed.  



The garden kitty greets me and meows for me to stay. Good thing. Otherwise, I'd be back inside in a flash to pick up the "big gun". I sit down on the deck stairs behind an overflowing pot of lavender alive with the movement of bees and the intermittent May breeze. Again, the light is perfect. I can't really see what I'm shooting. I can barely make out the display from the glare.

"How do these iPhonographers do this?" my heart says as my head says, "Just persevere. You can see it all later out of the sun."

Oddly, the roles of head and heart are reversed (again) with my head the creative brave part of me and my heart the cowardly lion. My head tells me I must push myself to explore new creative horizons and places I haven't experienced yet. My heart wants to go back to the comfy cozy place where it feels all warm and fuzzy--the creative terrain I've tread for some time now. This seems to be a theme for me for the past few years. I think of it as trying to "be brave". It's a strange thing for me to face.



When I was a kid I was used to change, new horizons to explore, and facing the unknown. After graduating high school, I had a perpetual case of wanderlust that lasted all through my twenties and into the early part of my marriage in my early thirties. Hubby and I got so good at traveling we had our carry-ons permanently packed with the essentials. All we had to do was throw in clothes for the trip and go. Change was exciting. Change was romantic. Change was a constant (if that makes sense).

Then we moved here. I settled into our home. After living here four years, I officially set a new life milestone for how many years I lived consecutively in the same house. Four years turned into eight. And eight years suddenly were twelve. Roots grow pretty deep in twelve years--in gardens and in people.

So is this why I am often facing the challenge to "be brave"?  Is this why it's so ridiculously difficult to take photos with my iPhone instead of my DSLR? It feels like it is, but maybe not.

Then I realize that by having roots that run so deep I am treading new territory--more unknown than any other horizon I've ever walked toward. Allowing myself to feel this sense of place... being like the oak tree instead of the dandelion... this could be the most brave I've ever been. And it's my heart that's leading me with this one.