Almost to a fault, I'm always looking for the lesson in the struggle. I can't sit in the hurt and not have faith that there is something to be gained from the experience. Dawn is always the worst (the best) for me in this regard - the new day, hope, the miracle of those colors and the comfort that, despite everything, the sun comes in the morning. I'm a realist, though, and I know where we are and how much there is to overcome. I live through the harsh afternoon sun as well. But I will always sit with a sunrise, taking the time to latch on to the hope and everyday miracles. I think it's the only way to the other side - if we just stay angry or anxious and don't believe things can change, there really is no chance.

The little things, the magic in the moments where everything floats away and I am distraction free enough to focus on the absolute bliss that's right in front of me. I've lived my life believing there are lessons in every struggle. I write those lessons down in hopes that, when we get to the other side of this, the lessons don't fade.

When we have school plays and high fives and bleachers full of screaming fans, when we can see each other smile in grocery stores and visit family for birthdays and congratulate one another with giant squeezing hugs. I want to remember that we lost that, that even the smallest gestures of human bonds were taken away from us, and I want to remind myself to not take that for granted.

I wonder, had I known what was in store for 2020, would I have started this project? As it ends, I see the benefit. I realize how the reflections helped me survive it. But I don't know that I would have signed up for a Gratitude Project knowing we were about to endure what this year threw at us.

But that's the thing, isn't it? We can't choose what we live. We can only choose what we give to it and, eventually, hopefully, the lessons we take away from it.

ref·​uge ˈref-ˌyüj 1 : shelter or protection from danger or distress

I grew up in Lawton, Oklahoma near the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge. As a kid, there were several family and field trips over the years, and the space always felt somewhat mythical. Longhorn and bison roaming the fields and streets, mountains here and there in our flat midwestern landscape. Miles of trails to get lost exploring, making the town seems hours away instead of the actual minutes. And then ascending Mount Scott to see everything spanned out below, framing any fears of worries as something so easily conquerable.

Picking a favorite lens is like picking a favorite child - I love them equally for different reasons. But I suppose if someone forced me to throw away every lens and just keep one, I would choose my macro. It makes me embrace what made me fall in love with photography to begin with - noticing the details that I might otherwise overlook.

One morning, hazy light shone through the breakfast table window and I couldn’t ignore it. It was just one picture, but then the light called again later that week. Then it became a daily ritual, me lying in the field behind our house in every element and season, waiting out the night sky until that little hint of orange hit the horizon.

The best part about bird photography is the hunt. It’s the perfect combination of predictability and pursuit. Most birds can be pinpointed to a general location (with intel from other birders, free bird apps, and general bird habits) but that doesn’t mean the birds are right there waiting in plain site. Once you arrive, it’s a game of being very still and attentive. You’re watching for a flutter, listening for a tweet, praying for a new bird even as you are simply hoping the one you hear singing decides to take flight. It’s an exercise that makes you more patient, more attentive to detail and, above all, appreciative of beauty and diversity. I tell my kids this is my Pokemon experience - gotta catch ‘em all, but it will never happen, so I take pleasure in the never-ending hunt for that new capture.

I once submitted a lifestyle portfolio for review and one of the comments was, “you have so many faceless images of your subjects, most from behind them.” Well, as a mom, that’s usually where I am, watching from behind as my kids move through their lives. The comment was meant as negative critique, but I took it as my reality and ran with it, photographing my life from where I stand.

In my puddle stories, I can get lost in the water, focusing on the love instead of fear of loss, on the now instead of the fleeting, on the awe and imagination instead of the the cynicism.