Photographing Stonehenge

I'm thinking about buying a new camera, one of those point-and-shoots, easy to carry, and with creative choices that my iPhone doesn't offer. My old, heavy SLR is a throw-back to an era of burdensome, conspicuous ownership that no longer entices me.

I just returned from a trip to Greece and Turkey without a camera of any kind. I went with the notion that putting a camera between myself and my surroundings would interrupt my experience. I like the naked eye, a preference I first discovered many years ago, after I spent a summer semester in England and had taken a side trip to Stonehenge. Back then I carried another big bulky camera, which hung from my neck like the ancient mariner's albatross.  A telephoto lens counter weighed my backpack. My expensive gear was borrowed, and I bore it with pride.

I took the Stonehenge trip in a heavy rain, hitchhiking with a friend. It stopped before we got to the monoliths, which were made even more picturesque by the mist that surrounded them. As I lumbered with my load through the crowd of tourists, I overheard one say that a week-long pagan ritual had just ended the day before.

There were stanchions that kept the crowds away from the stones. I asked if they had been removed for the ceremonies and was told yes. This piqued my imagination. I thought about the ones in the inner circle who were entrusted with touch and proximity. They were distinct from the rest of us who knew these stones were special only because we had been told. I think now that I used my camera as a shield, its brand (a Nikon, I think) the crest with which I could proclaim not who I was, but who I wanted to be.

I imagined the first group giving back as well as taking from the site. What they gave I wasn't sure. That site of worship had its mysteries and energetic exchanges that I couldn't understand. I belonged to the second group, or maybe that isn't the right word, since we consisted of everyone who didn't belong to the first group. We were less a group than a temporary collection of "others" who had amassed at Stonehenge out of curiosity and cultural longing, with our different beliefs and backgrounds. We would soon disperse and go back where we came from, and that would be that.

Except for our pictures. They were our link. We would all have our pictures when we got home. Along with the others, I held my camera between the stones and myself and clicked away, focusing on light adjustments and shutter speeds, keeping the faith that one or two photos would ultimately please. Someone pointed out that twin rainbows were emerging, which got me to look up. But only for an instant. I didn't want to miss the photo opportunity and quickly knelt on my knees to steady myself as I tried to encompass the stones and the sky with its double rainbow in my limited frame.

Once my roll of film was filled with these rainbow-covered pictures, I felt that my trip was complete. I might not be one of the inner-circle, but I had caught an extraordinary scene. (I didn't stop to think about rainy England with its high rainbow probabilities.) I believed I was moving towards the inside of another group--sophisticated travelers--better than ordinary tourists, although I couldn't have said how.

I'm glad I felt that sense of satisfaction that day because none of those pictures turned out. Back home in the fall, I searched through shot after shot of haze and blackness. Of all of my photographs from that summer, Stonehenge was the only spot that didn't take. Shots of London, the lake district, Westminster, Scotland, Ireland all shined brightly on glossy contact sheets. Only Stonehenge refused to be captured. It was then that I began to think there might be something to the energy in some places in the world. And it was then that I began to distrust photography for its promise of post-gratification.

But that was a long time ago. Now I begin to want the simple fun of cropping a beautiful figure or scene, a garden gate, an open door, a road. So many sensations have passed through me, some remembered, some not. I once again want to relate in another way, giving my love of this life to the things of life itself. Not to try to capture what can never be caught, but to say this is how I saw it that instant and then I moved on.

Passport

Preparing for the trip I just took to Greece and Turkey reminded me that I'll need to renew my passport in a couple of years.  The last time I did that was in 2006, soon after my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. I don't remember a thing about that last renewal. We had no plans for any trips abroad. Our routes were etched between home and hospital, home and doctors' offices. My solo journeys were from home to work and back again.

I had abandoned my own concerns to concentrate on those of my family. Besides Al's illness, I was in charge, long-distance, of my mother's care. It surprises me to think I even noticed that my passport was about to expire. I always kept it in the same place--in the top right-hand drawer of my desk. That's where I keep the things I need to grab quickly. A stapler and remover, scissors, stamps, envelopes. Somehow my passport fits there, even though I've never grabbed it, thrown some things into a carry-on, and hopped a flight to some exotic place at the last minute.

That's the thing about a passport. It holds a place in the imagination for fantasy. It promises the simple pursuits of curiosity and enthusiasm. A safe passage and a safe return. In a word, hope.

Did I have hope then? I lived with my fingers crossed, not quite the same thing. I didn't expect much for my mother. Her dementia was claiming her, little by little. It was too strong for her to fight. But Al was a gifted fighter. Through his intellect and physical strength, I hoped against hope that he would win.

Maybe he reminded me to renew my passport. That seems likely. Before he got too ill, he looked out for me while I looked out for him.

My picture startles me when I open the cover. There is no vanity, no smile. My mouth is open, as if I am gasping. As if I had paused for an instant while running a race. I stare straight ahead, but not at the camera or whoever was behind it. I am staring at nothing or nothingness. It was not good back then for me to pause. I needed to keep moving.

I didn't use that passport for several years. It stayed in my desk drawer until 2009. Since then I've carried it to Israel, France, Ecuador, Turkey, and Greece. It's only when I open its navy blue cover that I see who and what I once had no time to consider.

Every now and then, it isn't a bad thing to come face to face with the wounds that we believe have receded into the past. It reminds us of our strength under pressure and our ability to endure. It helps us appreciate the good in our present. And it gives us the opportunity to cherish our loved ones who have passed.

In a year or so, it will be time to take a new picture to stick on my renewal. So it goes. The story of a life.