I've never really tried to photograph the Northern Lights because darkness in the summer comes so late, and in the winter it's cold. The other night, I received a text from Jessi that simply stated, "Go for a drive now!" There was no time to quickly Google proper settings for my camera, and the lights were fairly dim by this time. I loaded the photos into Lightroom, and there were just a couple that I could work with. The exposure is raised along with contrast and a ton of noise- the grain from poor light was worked with. It reminds me of a watercolor painting, not a photograph. I love the light orbs that surround the tree. Almost as if there was a spiritual energy like the thin veil.
Have you ever walked through a cemetery to read the stones? As a child, places like this would have creeped me out. Death is an enemy, but it is a process that no one can run from. This is a place filled with loneliness and sorrow. People gather to bury loved ones and friends and to comfort those who are grieving.
It was about 26 years ago that my daughter Emily was buried in a little country cemetery in rural Barnesville. It was right next to a hunting preserve. If I close my eyes, I can feel the breeze once again hit my face as people surround me and I stare down into the grave that has been dug. The finality of that moment breaks every heart.
We chose a little cemetery like this, just miles from where we grew up, fully expecting to one day call Barnesville home again. That day will not come. When we visited family, we didn't often make time to visit her grave. I never really had the feeling that she was there anyway. I believed she was alive in Heaven.
Sometimes, I will stop by the cemetery in Northwood or even visit the lone stones that you sometimes see on a field's edge. I am often surprised at the number of children who were taken too soon in the past. So many have walked in our shoes, or I have walked in their steps. Like all trauma, it changed you forever. Healing happens, but you are different.
Many people go to this place of solitude to talk to their loved ones. It is one of those great mysteries that we cannot solve down here. Is that thin veil within our fingertips, and can they hear us? Do they still surround us, and are they aware? Maybe they are so happy and content that they are busy enjoying perfection, trusting the broken to God.
