The Dog Days of Summer

The heat is oppressive and the cold air conditioning is almost worse. It feels as though I am living in a terrarium, looking out at the world through the condensation of glass panes. It’s hard to generate enthusiasm for getting outdoors. But I feel cooped up. Restless.

We pick up corn from the farm for dinner and decide to drive the 45 miles to Colonial Beach. I am spurred on by a travel video I saw online of my small hometown. Through the eyes of a tourist, the town looks like a hidden gem. The destination quietly beckons. I need to see for myself. The promise of a curious future drives my commitment to our travels.

The afternoon sun glares, washing out colors, pressing down on us like a hot iron. Despite the heat, I lift the camera, and we talk of the past and the future of this small town. I am fairly well convinced that there is no picture here for me to see, but I am not content until we have driven around the point (The expression, to ride around around the point, is reserved by locals for the act of driving the perimeter of the peninsula, mostly as a daily ritual of mindfulness and comfort.) At the tip of the point there is the Dockside Marina where I see this little house boat, her adventure stalled.

Even as the left side of my brain works to create the picture, lining up the horizon, choosing a revealing angle, selecting only the most necessary details, the right side begins to imagine. Expanding my repertoire of safety beyond the familiar rhythm of constant motion. Where I stop running from uncomfortable emotions and instead create space for them.

Overturned Cupcakes

Cupcakes Overturned, July 2025

Our oldest son will visit for a few days this week. We will celebrate his birthday and our anniversary (these events being just a few days apart). He has requested cupcakes, and his favorite is yellow cake with chocolate icing. I have let myself off the hook for baking those cupcakes and plan to buy them from a local bakery. I have two bakeries in mind and decided to buy the mini versions this morning for a taste test. I planned to take a little still life photograph of the cupcakes but in the process of getting things set up, the cupcakes went sliding and landed with perfect form, plop, upside down, on our yellow kitchen chair. I debated for a moment, wondering what to do next. Give up and call the idea a wash? Buy more cupcakes? Nah . . . I just took the picture in all of its truth. Then my husband and I scraped the cupcakes off the chair and scarfed them down in single bites. We licked the icing from our fingers and smiled like the goofy kids we still are inside. I had to get a toothbrush and spray cleaner to get that chocolate frosting out of the little holes in our snazzy yellow kitchen chairs. It was a job, and yet somehow, still fun. I wasn’t angry or frustrated with myself for the misstep. My husband pitched in willingly to help with both the tasting and the clean-up. In the least expected way, this felt like the perfect anniversary gift. The kind of love that is light and effortless.

Keeping it Real

I wonder what happens when the act of making something becomes not just a personal experience but a public performance. And how does that impact the experience? Taking pictures is one of the truly joyous practices in my life. Because of this, I protect the practice fiercely. I don’t want to dissect each picture, fret over perceived mistakes, regret the lighting conditions, or judge the scene before it even settles on the sensor. The more I analyze the work, the harder it becomes to feel it. There is great comfort in saying to myself, “I don’t know why I love this photo, but I’m going to take it anyway.” I think it is this uncertainty that makes the work matter—and this awareness lets me live fully in the moment. I don’t have to explain my work in public. I can honor it in private.