Simply because I believed I had failed. I’ve used my design skills to hold down a sad paying little job. I’ve used them to enter contests. I have never used them as vehicle to brag. You can consider yourself a success if you get paid, if you make your client a happy client, if you receive compliments and more importantly if you get more clients. I have managed to achieve the first three goals thanks to synchronicity, the spinning of the wheel, the right project at the right time. Should I achieve the fourth goal I will consider myself successful.

But this is about synchronicity. I love to read. I eat books on a steady basis. Historicals are my favorite and if it contains a hint of the supernatural, so much the better. So, one summer day, not so long ago (ok, a couple of months ago) I was reading a book called Black Hills by Dan Simmons. This is the story of Paha Sapa, a young Lakota boy that gets possessed by Custer. I was very involved in this page-turner but I decided to take a break and check my email. Myspace had sent me a message from a movie production company with a friend request. While we all know that these are mass mailings, I thought it was rather odd that the movie in question centered around Native Americans, the subject of my reading material. I approved the friend request from Scattered Leaves: Legend of Ghostkiller, read the synopsis, thought I’d enjoy the book and the movie when it came out and then thought nothing of it.

Two weeks later the site put up a notice that they were looking for graphic artists. I emailed and one thing led to another. Who knew?

Model/Actor Rick Mora, Photo by Jayme McClure Harvey, Poster art work by Lisa Cosat, Breastplate and Choker by Dawn McIntyre. Chaps and Loin by Ramona Seymour. A Feature Film concept based on the book by Lynny Prince

It’s true, at least part of the time, that the right project and the right people will find you. Therefore I highly recommend this book by Lynny Price and the future film by Ghostkiller Productions.

And I’m still looking into all novels written by Dan Simmons.

Who knows?

Bones litter the Wyoming landscape. The evidence of the past is laid bare here, scraped raw by the wind, cracked by the winter cold and summer heat, teased by rain.

Sound is spare. Any noise in this uninterrupted silence bears the weight of relevance. A coyote call. A hawk’s shrill whistle. There is life. Then there is death. Then there is the wind that consumes it all.

The most sacred sites are those that are rarely visited. They echo with their own solitude, lonely tributes to the lonely.

In Wyoming, 300 feet off of the highway, more or less, is a cross made of 2×4′s. It stands on an outcrop of sandstone above a flat plain, it’s weather worn arms spread wide. No evidence of its origin or history marks it’s plain wood. It could have been put up three years ago by Sunday school students or 50 years ago by a bored cowboy.

Who knows? Who cares? Not the lizards that worship the sun beneath it’s arms, not the raptors hunting in the vast sky above.

It means everything. It means nothing. It depends heavily upon context. I take this as a symbol of some stranger’s faith. Certainly not my own. A hope. But not my own. To me, it is haunted. Someone, who had faith and hope, went to the trouble of erecting a cross on a landscape that cared nothing for it. What time of year was it when it went up? Did the summer sun beat down or did the winter wind howl from the west? Is it a memorial of a passing or a declaration of arrival?

Beyond knowing, perhaps. I am more capable of understanding the mind that tossed an empty beer can out of a window onto a two-track road than I am of this.

Alas, exercise is the first to go. But I have done more shooting, though winter is by far my least favorite season. We seem to be having more foggy mornings than usual and I dragged myself to the the river to capture it.

Just these past few days I went to visit the herd where they had conveniently positioned themselves close to the highway. They are shaggy and intent on grazing and all look well but for one skinny mare who is nursing a strong, healthy colt. I had forgotten how quiet it can be out there and how much I missed it. It is lonesome, harsh and beautiful.

But my jewel of the week is the eastern face of Heart Mountain (also spelled Hart, but it doesn’t feel right). This local little peak has been shot time and time again by locals, but I wanted something unique of my own. It has been a challenge to find a creative composition of it, but I believe I have accomplished it, at least to my own satisfaction. It reminds me a bit of Chinese landscape art, with the diagonal lines and the cloud bank about to swallow the peak. I was aware of it at the time I took the shot, but couldn’t identify it in words. That’s the power of images. They give us time that we don’t have.

The best habit to have when taking pictures is to…

Take the camera. Sounds simple I know, but I like to complicate things.

There are times when I go for a walk just for the sake of going for a walk. It has nothing to do with photography and a lot more to do with the dogs. I’ve tried to solve this problem by taking pictures of the dogs, but sometimes they are not in the mood. They know, somewhere in their doggy minds, that they are the focus, and they surely do not appreciate it. How is a dog supposed to be a dog and eat dog poop this way? Or roll in skunk scent? I ruin their good time.

Lately I am trying to be good. A walk, no matter it’s purpose, must be accompanied by a camera. I usually find nothing this way. Last Saturday, my husband was determined to go pick asparagus by the river, so I grabbed my camera and off we went.

As I followed my man, Jungle Jack, into bushels of overgrowth (why yes, Wyoming is enjoying a let-up in the drought), fought off wild rose thorns, clambered over boulders and narrowly dodged a bath in the river … something occurred to me. My camera should not be doing this. I checked to make sure my lens cap was on as I yelled at my husband over the rush of the river, “I’m going the other way!” Gasp. Groan.”Find my d*** lens cap while you’re at it!”

I know he yelled back something about my lost sense of adventure and then something, something etc…, but I was too annoyed to “What??!!” at him. Hopefully one of the things he yelled was “found it”.

In fact he did, but that’s not the point, really. I had taken no photos up to this point and the muddy river was not inspiring. I’m sure there’s some photographer out there, quaking at me like a duck to use my imagination, find the vision, record the journey, blah blah blah and that’s what this is all about etc… Which sounds like a lovely theory until you’re in the moment.

But see, here’s the trick. Take the camera. Strap it on, have it ready, like life-jacket. And forget about it. A watched pot never boils. Life is lived while you’re doing something else.

While you’re picking asparagus, turn when you hear a couple of birds having conniption fits and take the picture of the bull snake that is swiftly climbing the tree into their nest. Then throw rocks at the tree and help the mama and poppa bird harass him.

(*no snake was harmed in the tale of this photograph*)

This blog is a summation of my photography, why I do it, what I find in it, what stories come about because of it. I am no professional to be sure, although I aspire to be one and can only hope to reach that level of accomplishment. No, this a serious hobby that has taken me down roads that suck up my truck and has caused me to spend money beyond what I should, demanding more everyday.

Then what could I possibly get out of it, if there is no money involved? There is so much more than money. Money passes through my fingers like an unwitnessed ghost, leaving no trace, insubstantial and gone before it can be counted.

But the earth beneath my feet–that is another matter altogether. It is always there, supporting me and filling my vision, from birth to death, for I am short-lived and just as insubstantial as the money I don’t get to count. For those of us that have paused to breathe in this life force and truly observe, we have all seen a sunset that will never happen in quite the same way again; a cloud formation that cannot be repeated; solid walls of granite that will someday be grains of sand, transforming their beauty in an unknowable future beyond us.

I collect these visions like I collect pretty rocks. No monetary value, no essential use. Just a pretty rock in my pocket that I feel lucky to run across and possess for a short period of time.

The rock will out live me and my aspirations, disappointments, struggles and triumphs. By holding it, I feel a part of it, rather like a bird on a water buffalo or a tick on a dog, hitching a free ride. A photograph is another way of hitching a free ride, the only difference being an even less substantial version of a rock.

I never know what I will see, how I will see it, how I will be able to record it, thereby leading to my obsession to chase sunsets, stand next to freezing waterfalls and hike all over hill and dale. It could be worse. It could lead me, like my husband, to sneak up on moose and follow bear track. But that’s another blog.