It's Not About the Equipment

We all want to be seen, heard, and loved. But sometimes we look outwardly for that which is only found inwardly. We seek contentment, yet we use temporary Band-Aids: new gadgets, self-improvement projects, and distractions. Contentment comes when we slow down and inhabit our lives.

If this resonates for you, read on. The Bella Grace blog, Grace Notes, just published my post: It's Not About the Equipment.

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Guided Meditations|Everyday Mindfulness|Photography|Facebook Page

Now for Something Completely Different

Where has my silliness gone? Yesterday I reread my latest posts. The topics: self-judgment, difficulty, fear, over-thinking. All important topics. All exactly where I was at the moment. Yet I've left out my happiness and childlike wonder. Life is heartbreaking, but it's also joyful.

Last night I made a different choice: take my camera, tripod, and remote shutter-release outside. Jump around. Leap, bound, play, and laugh. My first stop was the backyard--a safe place. But my neighbors were gardening or eating, and the mood felt calm not playful, so I walked to the park.

(me walking backwards, a little giddy)

The park felt festive. Families gathered. Smoke rose from grills. Children laughed. Cars drove past. I placed my tripod in a patch of sunset light next to the road. In that spot I jumped and twirled and giggled. I felt playful and free.

When we most need it--when we feel sad or angry or hurt--we forget that life is fun. We're surrounded by joy, laughter, and beauty. Sometimes we need to jump around, do the unexpected, or make our own adventures. When I'm playful, my heart opens and my thoughts subside. I see the magical world that is my life.

(me walking forwards, relaxed and happy)

Start Where You Are

At times, I feel equipment envy. I crave a better camera or a new lens. I dream of crisper shots and bigger prints. But then I remember: I have much to learn about light and composition. My bare-bones camera is enough. It's not about the equipment, it's about how I see the world.

Often we mistakenly think better equipment will make us happy. We want a better body or a new gadget. Yet life is not about the equipment. It's about starting from exactly where we are. One of the way we sabotage ourselves--our creativity, well-being, or relationships--is by this untrue story: I can't start something unless everything is perfect. I'll take a photography course after I buy a good camera. I'll sign up for yoga once I lose weight.  I'll nurture myself and my relationships when my schedule's less busy.

But life is always messy and imperfect. If we wait for just the right moment, we'll never begin. Wherever you are, that's the place to start--with honesty and gentleness. You have all the equipment you need. Start in this moment. What magic awaits you?

Turn the Lens Around

Included in the first version of my Life Menu: take a photograph of myself everyday for a year. This wasn't about inner-exploration or art. It was about documentation. How do my features change daily? This life-menu item sat dormant. Until I found 52-of-You. Then my idea morphed: take a photograph of myself every week for a year. Not as documentation. As creativity, as self-love, as therapy, as art.

"Selfie" is Oxford Dictionaries Word of the Year 2013. According to Oxford, a selfie is "a photograph one has taken of oneself, typically one taken with a smartphone or webcam and uploaded to a social media website." It's wonderful when people put themselves in the frame--when they declare their place. But Oxford's definition of a "selfie" is pure documentation. There's no deep dive inward.

Last year, as I turned the lens on myself, I found light, depth, play, love, edges, and acceptance. Through self-portraits I uncovered new layers of myself. I faced self-judgment. I found beauty.  And ultimately I realized that I am worthy. 

Taking photographs of myself is not only therapy,  it's practice. Practice with light, composition, perspective, and expressiveness. Being my own subject (day after day) provides endless opportunity, which has improved my art. And opened my heart. And stimulated my sense of wonder.

It saddens me when people say, "self-portraits indicate self-absorption" or "self-care is selfish." If we don't water seeds of joy in ourselves, we can't fully attend to others. If we don't see the beauty in ourselves, we can't fully see beauty in others. Self-reflection (both honest and kind) is essential for a sustainable, well-lived life.

So, my friends, I encourage you to turn the lens around. If not the actual camera lens, then the lens of your loving heart. Look inward. Be honest, yet gentle. There's beauty in the most unexpected places. 

Beauty in Crowds?

True confession: I'm crowd averse. I prefer small gatherings to big crowds. I associate crowds with noise, frenzy, and over-stimulation. But crowds are part of life. (Sigh.) So recently I've tried to find beauty in crowds--both with my camera and with my heart. 

Sometimes I get hooked by the stories in my mind. Even further, I believe I'm a big player in other people's lives--either thinking I can save people or worrying about their thoughts of me.  But here's a hard reality: I'm not the biggest player in anyone else's story. And crowds provide me this perspective. I can viscerally understand my impact. Yes, my actions have impact (and heartfelt action has more positive effect), but the impact isn't blown out of proportion. I don't believe I'm worthless nor do I believe I'm all-powerful. I'm just me, in a crowd. In this way, anonymity can be a balm.

But I never want to lose my empathy. I've heard meditation teacher Pema Chodron describe a compassion exercise, "just like me." Just like me, that person--right there--wants to be loved; to be happy; to not suffer. Just like me, each person in this crowd experiences joys and sorrows. This reflection allows me to see the face of each person in a crowd and feel compassion; compassion in a group of strangers--what a gift.

Via photography, the depiction of crowds is a complex activity. If I focus on the personal--a few faces--then I haven't captured the crowd. But if I focus on the masses, the visual is uninteresting. I've chosen the purposeful out-of-focus shot, so the crowds are colorful circles and shapes. Their beauty is abstractly revealed and the details are left to the viewer's imagination. In this way, crowds are an art form. 

If I'm mindful, crowds quiet my internal story and widen my compassionate view. Crowds are colorful shapes of humanity. Indeed, there is beauty in crowds. The next time I'm crowd-averse, I just need to look deeper. Perhaps this is a rule for all of life (when averse, look deeper).

Making Space

Recently I've craved space. Space to patiently sit with my creative ideas. Moments (long moments) of active non-doing. I want breathing room. Just when I needed it, Kristin and Meredith sent this prompt: negative space. A place to rest.  It's interesting how some things align (and others are completely out of whack). I'm grateful for this artistic cue. It connects my visuals with my intentions.

Negative space is a gift in photography. For the viewer's eye, it's a place to rest. No over-stimulation, just easy focus on the subject with extra peaceful space. Negative space is also a gift in life. Our busy schedules often allow no room--no room for life to interrupt. And life always interrupts. People get sick, emotions arise, cars don't start, accidents happen, bad things happen to good people.

If we don't actively make space, we can feel assaulted by life. (And if we incessantly do and distract when we have space, we can feel empty.) But with precious breathing room, we can help others while taking care of ourselves. We can experience life rather than racing through the day. We can know we're okay in this moment, with this breath. It might seem like everything's gone to hell, but really, it hasn't. If we find make the space, then we have time to reflect.

This week I've tried to stay very curious, especially when I have breathing room. What's the state of my heart in this moment? What am I feeling? What actions give me energy and what actions drain my energy? What am I projecting on others that's actually my own internal storm? How can I stay true to myself while navigating a new creative path?

It's been a lovely (and difficult) week of reflection. Only possible because I made space.

The Story of my Blog

What is the story of my blog? It's a good time to answer frequently asked questions.

It seems your blog has changed over the years. Can you explain the evolution of this space?
My blog originated (in 2008) as a place to document my teaching experiences, but quickly morphed into out-of-the-classroom observations. Yet I couldn't find my authentic voice. It felt like I was giving advice rather than sharing in a natural way. So I stepped away from the blog for years. When I became a student of photography, my images led me back to this blog. Pairing words with photos feels creative and genuine. And I've found an authentic voice.

Why is your blog named Born Joy?
Truth: it was the name I liked best with an available URL. But it's grown on me--there are layers to the name. Most obviously, I was born with the name Joy. And birthing joy in our lives is a wonderful mission. How is joy born? Sometimes it's innate,  sometimes it's grown with care, and other times it's fiercely forged from the difficult moments.

Some bloggers prompt readers for comments. Do you welcome reader feedback?
I love to hear from readers, whether a post resonates with them, makes them laugh, or disagrees with them. In the comments, readers can share whatever is on their minds or in their hearts. And if commenting feels too public, I welcome email from readers. (I don't include question prompts because that doesn't fit with my particular voice; but I value feedback.)

Do you take all the photographs included on this blog?
Every single one. 

What's the deal with the self-portraits?
Initially, self-portraits were difficult for me; they tapped into a vulnerability with which I wasn't yet comfortable. But embracing the self-portrait--and truly embracing myself--has made a big difference in my life. Self-portraiture is a rich learning environment. I learn much about photography and about myself.

Other bloggers are on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, why aren't you?
My plate is already full with email, Flickr, and blogging. If I joined Facebook and Twitter, I would fall into an abyss of attention-grabbing activity that would disconnect me from creativity. (I just know this about myself. I need to abstain.) With regard to Instagram, I own a flip-phone used sparingly. My Nikon is what I use for photography.  

Do you think this decision affects the ability to spread your message?
Perhaps. But here's the more important issue: my message is only authentic if I'm connected with myself. I'm at capacity in terms of social media. If I do more, I'll be too distracted to be authentic. I'd rather my message be genuine than widely heard (if there must be a choice).

How does Buddhism fit with your blog?
The Buddhist philosophy resonates with me. I read the dharma. I sit in meditation. I attend silent retreats. But I don't expect my readers to know anything about Buddhism. The Buddhist teachings come through in my writing simply because that's how I live my life. Yet there's no need for me to use Buddhist-specific language. In the words of the Dalai Lama: "My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness." Kindness, mindfulness, curiosity--these are all themes in my blog, because they are themes in my life.

What is the creative mechanism behind your posts?
My blog is an interplay between words and photographs. And it's an honest look at my life--the ups and downs and in-betweens. Typically a post germinates from an issue or insight I've recently experienced. Sometimes my photographs generate an idea for a post. What's most important to me is that my voice sound genuine. Occasionally I write a post that feels forced (e.g., telling not sharing, or writing about a topic that doesn't capture my heart). Those I try to delete before publishing.

What do you hope for the readers of your blog?
I try to create community by sharing honestly. This includes baring difficult truths about myself. I'd love for us, as a culture, to feel comfortable sharing not only the happy emotions, but also the difficult emotions. And for that sharing to occur without judgment. So I include the joys and the sorrows; the light and the dark (and the playfulness). My hope is this makes readers feel less alone and more understood, even if in a small way.

Out of Focus

My last few weeks have been fuzzy. I'm ready to start new adventures, yet had to finish previous commitments. I have many ideas, yet no focus. I drew a mind-map, yet haven't followed any path. I want this freedom, yet feel naked without old identities. This is exactly the place in which I wanted to sit--to not know. But it's not a place I want to nest. 

I long for a routine--writing sessions all morning, with short breaks for meditation or yoga. Yet my day skitters away from me. Not in a purposeful lolling way, but in a boldly doing (nothing) way--doing without heart. Too much time online; too many to-dos driven by ego, not my authentic voice; too much pressing, not enough openness.

Yet none of this surprises me. My ego is strong and can jab me from multiple directions. It keeps me on the attention-grabbing doing path and keeps me away from the soul-filling path. And ego can't wait for me to fail at writing, so it can steer me back to safer waters. (Or if I'm going to succeed at writing, ego wants me to do it really, really fast.)

Sigh. 

I'm out of focus, but I noticed; that's always the first step. And the illusion of a perfect morning routine is quite off-putting. I just need to dive in. Flail or hover or flop or soar, I just need to start something and stay with it (even when it's hard). I need to find a path with heart. As I write this, I know I'm not far from that path. I'm connected with people, often connected with myself, and I'm engaged in creative endeavors. It's really a change in habit around work (and what "work" is). 

The focus is there, if only I turn the lens a few notches. Then the white blobs might turn into an actual daisy:

Naked

I encourage my students to try things; to experiment in a low-stakes environment; to screw up. It's our mistakes that teach us everything. Within the world of statistics, I've been an expert for years. The role of expert provided me safety. Yet it also feels dull. Dull, blah, uninteresting. It no longer serves my soul.

So I took some risks. (Besides my upcoming resignation in August.) I experiment with photography and writing, and I often bare myself on this blog. I participate in the online Flickr community, and I bare tender parts of me (the parts that are still unsure about my art; the parts that want critique, but in a gentle voice).

Every time I take these risks, I feel naked; I feel vulnerable. Yet I also feel incredibly alive. It's an interesting line to walk: if you fall off one side, you feel hurt and embarrassed; if you fall off the other side, you feel stilted and tired. I've come to realize that perhaps it's not such a fine line, but a wide path (with many soft places to land). All of life is balancing responsibility and freedom, safety and risk, vulnerability and boundary, pleasure and pain.

And it's our mistakes that teach us everything. 

Playing in the Snow

Last spring I discovered the fun of self-timer action shots. And this Christmas my brother-in-law gave me the greatest gift: a wireless remote shutter release. No longer must I run back and forth from the camera; now I can leap with abandon, simply clicking the remote to take a picture. (Thank you, Eric!) 

Today, as a soft snow fell, I jumped and laughed through a series of photos. Afterward, I was positively giddy. There's definitely no age limit on happily playing in the snow.

Trust

Yesterday I wrote about doubt. And, not surprisingly, I had a huge doubt attack after sharing so personally. This is the wily way in which doubt works. The antidote to doubt is trust--trust in myself, in my basic goodness, and in the truth of the present moment. Trust that I am okay, just as I am (without any doing, achieving, accomplishing, changing). When I'm mindful, I'm in touch with my kind heart, and I trust. When I'm not mindful, I inhabit fear and doubt and then more busyness. My therapist once said to me, "Joy, everything you need is already inside of you." This is a mantra I've repeated weekly, if not daily. In fact, her statement is true. I'm already okay, enough, strong, lovable, wise, capable--these are things in which I can trust deeply (yet pesky doubt still sneaks in). Each day is another step on the trust path.

Wednesday evening, as Mark and I relaxed in the backyard, I asked him to write the word "TRUST" on my chest with a black Sharpie. All my wonderful hubby asked was, "does it matter what font I use?" I said "no." And then I smiled, as this was all part of the trust exercise. After he emblazoned me with trust, I let it seep in. And I took many self-portraits in order to fully remember and embrace the moment:

A Correspondence Between Friends

Joy:
Sometimes in July
the rhythm slows.
Busyness bested
by thick heat.
Lazy summer days return--
disruptive, though secretly embraced.
Porch-swing conversations
reveal an acute, though camouflaged,
need for dormancy;
need for reflection.
The heat's imposed stillness
but a temporary balm.

Joanna:

Joy:

Joanna:
Sometimes in July,
We dream of winter
Imagining the thrill
Of snow so deep
Stranded we sleep, 
Curled beside the fire
Bright with dormant
Reflections, the stillness of
The frozen night
Bested by those acute
Secrets, camouflaged by
Silent conversation.