I signed up for a workshop hosted by the lovely Joy Prouty of Wildflowers Photography. I’ve long admired her work, committment to her family, and desire to inspire creative women. I really wasn’t sure what to expect going in,and that terrified me because I love a good plan. To make matters worse (or maybe better?), all the other women signed up were professional, amazing photographers from all over the country and Canada. And then there was rinky-dink, old me with this blog.
What. The. Hell.
Within the first hours of meeting everybody on the first official day of the workshop, most of my doubts flew out the window because everybody was so kind, smart and obviously there to learn. I was still questioning if I was supposed to be there and felt a bit like a little fish in a big pond. Mid-morning, after we’d spent time touring the property and introducing ourselves/bonding, Joy asked us to listen to some music while writing a thankful list. Not just any thankful list, but a list of things that nobody else would really know or understand from our own lives. A zoomed-in version of a thankful list. She also asked us to go outside and write for 20+ minutes once the music stopped playing.
At the top of my list I wrote:
1. I’m thankful for how 3G said good-bye.
Before I could add much more to my list, Audra Mae’s version of Forever Young started playing. Anyone that knows me, knows that Forever Young is my song. I think of it as an anthem of sorts that has followed me though my life. Bob Dylan’s lyrics were stitched onto a blanket for me as a baby by my aunt, and my dad has sung it to me all my life, bringing me to tears. I know every word in that song is exactly what my parents have hoped for me in my own life.
Audra Mae’s version is absolutley my very favorite and on the final morning of my Grandma’s life, I got to sit with her alone for an hour. After talking to her, holding her hand and staring at her face, I pulled out my phone and set it next to her head while Audra Mae sang her heart out. My grandma, who was mostly unresponsive on that day, slowly turned her head towards the music.
I know she heard it.
As I sat there stunned at the photography workshop, listening to the same song, I thought of my grandma and kept writing on my list. Eventually the music ended and I started to head outside. It was rather chilly, and I grabbed a vintage quilt, Joy has them in baskets all though her home, and headed to the garden. I spread the quilt out and sprawled out and stated writing about my grandma. The story of her life needs to be told, but also the story of her death. Some day I hope I’m brave enough to write about my grandpa’s grace, my cousin’s courage, and everything in between.
I scribbled thorough a couple pages, trying to bring it back to photography and why I was at that workshop, but it was a struggle. I set my pen down for a moment and then noticed something attached to the quilt I was lying on. It was a recipe card, just like my grandma’s, attached with a pin. The edges of the card were browned and curling with age, and on it there was old-lady cursive hand writing. I inched my head closer to see what was written, and was baffled. “Handmade in North Dakota…..” was how the card started and gave details of how it was made.
My eyes brimmed with tears because my grandma was also handmade in North Dakota, a place that is near and dear to my heart. How had I picked the one quilt that had a recipe card with old-lady handwriting attached to it stating that it was handmade in North Freakin’ Dakota of all places?
I got the message loud and clear from my Grandma. I was exactly where I was supposed to be, at that photography workshop, digging deeper and searching for that creative voice inside me that’s always been there. I really, really miss my grandma and everything she was to me. Without a doubt, she would be encouraging me to spread my wings and fly.
I finished up my writing, in the middle of that garden on the vintage quilt, and returned to the rest of the workshop feeling a bit more confident and armed with a stronger sense of direction.
When I got home from the workshopthere was a couple messages from a publication that had found my blog and wanted permission to print a couple of my pictures of 3G having a tea party with Maggie. Of all the images that we have on the blog, this company wants access to ones of my grandma.
Again, message recieved, Grandma.
I can do this and you’re still here.
I’m determined to have a photo book for each year of my girls’ lives for them to look back on when they’re grown. My mom did that for me and my brothers, and there were times in my life that pouring over those books, full of memories, gave me great comfort. I love pictures of people that tell stories, and, to me, there are no other photos more important than family photos. 
