One of the earliest “truisms” as I like to call them (you might call them a proverb) I ever learned is ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’  My cousin sent a photo that featured her mother and mine.  There were two boys in it as well and we were hoping to identify who they might be.  And while our attention was held by those two boys, my mind soon drifted and my eyes focused on other things in the photo.  I wondered who might have played the guitar that was affixed to the wall behind my mother’s head.  I wondered which Bible study aid my Aunt was reading as she concentrated on the words bound inside the book encased in both her hands.  In front of her, on the table, the family Bible lay open, ready for her fingers to search for answers as she endeavoured to draw closer to God.  I recognized the King James Version she was reading as I’d seen it at my Grandmother’s home when I was a young girl.  And I’d seen it later, after Grandma died.  We’d inherited her sofa after she passed away.  One day I was exploring and discovered the sofa opened up; it was actually a hide-a-bed.  And inside the hollowed out cushioned seat, I found my Grandmother’s Bible.  The family Bible.  And it’s a treasure to me, as much as this photo, of my Aunt holding her publication and learning from the Bible is.  My Aunt inspired my Mother to want to know God and His identity.  As an atheist, it was a miracle my Aunt found God, and even more so that my mother did too.  When Bible students called on my Mother’s home, she would see them coming and hang a cross on the wall.  She believed in God, she just didn’t want to know ‘their’ god … and my Aunt changed that for my parents.  She dedicated her life to God and remained loyal to him up until her recent death.  Looking at this old photograph had me pulling out my phone and looking at the photos stored in my album.  

A few of the photos on my phone are saved to an album entitled “favourites.”  These are the photos I don’t want to lose.  And I think the only reason I don’t have a hard copy of these particular photos is because of “sticky fingers.”  I am sure every family has one.  A family member who refuses to ask for a copy of a photo and just takes it instead.  I have - had - one photograph of my Dad and brother together on my brother’s wedding day.  They’re looking at Polaroid snapshots from the ceremony and the wedding party and guests are enjoying some downtime before they leave for the reception.  This is the only photo in existence of my Dad and brother together as men, I know this because I am the one who captured the moment using our Polaroid camera.  I “lost” it from the family photo album where it was kept.  But then I found it when my nephew was going through some things he ought not to have been snooping in at his house.  I took the photograph back, without disclosing I’d found it.  But, before I had a chance to make a copy, my relative visited and retrieved the photo from the album where I’d placed it again.  I suppose it’s a good thing I took a picture with my heart because I’m sure I’ll never see the photo in the light of day again.  Some pictures are like that.  They tell a story that everyone would like to hang onto and keep for always.

In the digital album I see a photo of my parents and my two eldest brothers.  In it my eldest brother is nearly four years old and he’s looking at the camera.  There’s a black smudge across his forehead, no doubt the photo is damaged because of age and oil from fingertips running across the images in the photo.  As I look at my brother’s face, his image looks so familiar to me… as if I have just seen it today, in the flesh.  And I have.  The resemblance between my brother and my eldest twin is uncanny.  Perhaps the dark eyes, cheeks and facial features so similar to each other should be expected genetically - except that my boys aren’t genetically related to us.  Which gives rise to the quandary - are any of us related by nature? Or are we related by nurturing?  My brain grapples with the idea, comparing the two as I look at the images of my brother and my son.  To be fair, my son reminds me most of my second eldest brother.  My brother’s nick-name growing up is “super Dave.”  He had a reputation for impressing people by breaking bar stools over his own head, calling a “time out” on fist fights so everyone involved could remove their eye glasses before resuming the fight and he has survived accidents that would have killed people who had a lesser will to live.  He was a semi truck driver and survived a crash on the pulp haul road near Prince Albert; on the oil rigs in Alberta his load of pipes broke the safety straps and buried him alive.  He broke his jaw and dislocated his shoulder in that accident.  “Super Dave” has survived a lot, including a disease common to jungles that hospitalized him for six weeks.  None of us knew if he would wake up, much less survive.  And my little boy is just like his uncle.  If there is a break neck speed he can run, he will.  If there is a mighty mountain, tree or piece of furniture he can climb, he does.  And why safely navigate one’s way down off of said precipice when he can jump?  He makes my heart stop several times a day with his shenanigans yet, my brother and my son are thick as thieves, whether they’re installing a light over the dining room table or playing with my brother’s drone - the two are inseparable.  My brother came over the other night just after my son had gone to bed.  When he heard the doorbell, my son’s eyes flew open and he screamed as loud as his voice would allow, struggling to turn the knob on the bedroom door in his haste to get to his Uncle.  My daughter opened the door and her brother flew past her, pushing against her hip as he ran up the hallway and into my brother’s arms.  My daughter was perplexed but also found humour in the scene she’d witnessed, “What was it, a ghost?” she asked as she tried to make sense of my son’s dramatic reaction.  She laughed because she shares a fairly significant emotional bond with this same Uncle.  Perhaps of all of us, she understands how her brother feels more than anyone else can.  Now a days, “Super Dave” is super for more than the ways he can impress other people. And it’s more significant than a broken chair could ever be.

My eyes scan over other pictures I have in my favourites album.  There’s a photo of my dog and my sister’s dog, sleeping side by side on the sofa.  My sister has a chihuahua and I have a husky/shepherd cross.  There was a time I didn’t think they’d be friends.  My dog would pick my sister’s dog up by it’s sweater and carry it around the back yard.  She would drop the small dog in the highest and deepest snow bank she could find, and I swore she laughed when the little dog tried to jump out of the snow, only to give up, and start yipping  for help.  My dog never, ever came to her aid and, more often than not, would look in the opposite direction when people came to see what was wrong with the little dog.  And now they sleep together.  My dog still finds ways to amuse herself at the little dog’s expense.  Could there be anything more humiliating for the little dog than to have the big dog sitting on her face?  Well, actually, yes there is - my dog sits on her face and let’s off gas.  The poor chihuahua’s nose wrinkles up into a tight pout and her eyes water excessively while she tries to work her way through those stink bombs in a dignified and polite way.  But once she’s free she sneezes so violently her four feet lift off the floor as she tries to expel the fumes from inside her lungs.  My dog looks out the picture window as she feigns a look of innocence but, her shoulders are shaking, her eyes squint with undisguised humour and I’m pretty sure she’s grinning as her tongue rolls out of her mouth and she tries to recover her breath.  The poor chihuahua covers her nose with her paw and tries to catch her breath as well but, it’s too late, she’s slipped down some of the rungs of her seniority ladder and, rather than look like a leader of the “pack”, she has been made to look like a clown.  To be fair, a dog wearing a sweater hasn’t helped her appear any less of a fool than the things my dog does to humiliate her.  To me, the chihuahua is just a glorified cat - one that I’m not allergic to.  And my dog has seen me through some of my very darkest days, bed rest for nearly a year and some bleak experiences I wasn’t sure I really wanted to recover from.  As much as some of my family detest her, she’s been a source of strength where I would have had none, and I wouldn’t be alive without her support.

I have photos of bath bombs, which remind me to relax and be grateful.  And I also have several photos of hands.  Little ones, such as those of my children (at various stages of their growth) and those of my mother, who is crocheting and teaching me a particularly complicated technique that I eventually learn well enough to recreate from memory.  These are all precious memories that tell a story I want to keep for always.  The really amazing thing about these photographs is, as I age, the story changes.  Those thousand words turn into two thousand words and then, as my life experience grows and my appreciation matures, the story becomes embellished until the story consists of more than ten thousand words - or more.  They become the fabric of my journey, the signs along the way telling me where I have been and the direction I am going.  They’re my roots and the vessels holding the stories people will remember about me.  They’re beautiful and tragic reflections of the life I have lived and the people who influenced me to be the woman that I am.  

In the last year, pictures have become a vital part of healing for me.  I’ve been able to hold onto relationships that have borne the scars of hurt feelings, anger and things, while true, maybe shouldn’t have been said.  I don’t have regrets but I did struggle from being unable to completely let go of the feelings words were able to bring to the surface - and every once in a while I’d hear a phrase that would trigger a heated response inside of me.  I’d actually have to speak out loud to myself to calm down, telling myself to “let it go” because nothing useful could come from reacting to those memories.  That’s the thing about memories… they don’t change the outcome.  Today I asked my mother, “Do you know what the definition of insanity is?”  She replied, “You are!”  I shook my head.  “It’s doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results.”  Memories are like that.  We relive them hoping for a different emotional response - unless we change, grow and mature the result will always be hurt.  And then we lose someone to death - and those feelings just evaporate.  I could never understand how someone who spoke so negatively about a person why they were alive could speak so well of them after they’d died.  Then someone I have been actively working on my relationship with dies before we got the chance to completely recover from our hurts - the scars were still there but they didn’t hurt like they once did - I just missed the relationship we once had and I hoped we would find it again.  Or a better version of what we’d had.  Death meant we’d never reach that point in this lifetime.  But any ill will I had harboured against them disappeared when I heard they’d died.  And I have at least one relationship that I hope will turn out the same - one of forgiveness that is genuine rather than “active” forgiveness, where I have to keep reminding myself to behave and let go of those negative emotions.  I just have to focus on the pictures that bring out the best memories and let go of the ones that make me regret the things I didn’t say.  

As I scroll through the photographs in my albums, I’m remembering the stories but there’s something more powerful at work here too.  I’m working on my bucket list of life and near the top of the list is the admonition… “Remember the stories of your life with no regrets.”  I’ll let you know how that one turns out as it’s a work in progress.  In the meantime, look at your own photographs and tell the stories you see in the pictures.  Look past the people and see the other treasures captured there.  They are worth remembering, sharing and recording as part of the legacy people will recall as they remember the stories that were you.  As you are doing that, I’ve just taken another picture with my heart.  It’s in my soul, where I keep all my favourite heart memories - my seven year old nephew/son has just come to share a milestone with me … he can now whistle!  And his talent is far better than the weak noise my lips emit.  I’m proud of him and the way he shares his life with me.  One day I’ll have an album of stories to share about him.  But for today, that is enough stories - it’s time to make more memories to remember for tomorrow.

Take care and have a great week, everyone.