Three years ago, I was honored to be asked to speak at my high school’s Cum Laude Society induction ceremony the night before graduation. Since it’s that time of year again, I thought it would be fun to share with you a slightly abridged version of the advice I gave to the graduates. Here goes: One night, [now] 10 years ago, I sat alone in my tent staring at a paper packet covered in cartoon worms and wondering whether I would survive the night. The front of the packet contained no words. Just yellow, orange and blue worms that seemed to wriggle right off the paper. I emptied the packet’s contents—what I had been assured was anti-parasite powder—into my water bottle and shook it until the particles dissolved. After a few deep breaths, I gulped down the mixture, which tasted suspiciously like Tang. I was in the middle of a two-month stint as a field research assistant in remote Madagascar studying primate behavior, and had managed to pick up some sort of stomach parasite that was about ready to finish me off. The nearest hospital was a three-day trek by car over washed-out dirt roads. But we had no car. Or any mode of communication with the world outside the nature reserve where we were living. So I just curled up in my sleeping bag to fend off the falling temperatures and lay listening to the growing sounds of night in the spiny desert. As I fell asleep, all I could think was: “What the hell am I doing here?” Upon beginning the field work, I figured out quickly that lying on my back under trees that spew human-blinding sap to observe lemurs—the least evolved of all primates—forage and groom, hardly resembled the romantic Jane Goodall-esque experience I had hoped for. Neither did scouring the forest floor to collect lemur fecal samples for hormone testing. I decided I could now safely check primatology off my list of potential careers. Did that make this entire adventure—or misadventure—a massive, reckless mistake? After all, I had been reduced to entrusting my life to the Malagasy version of Tang and still had no career path on the horizon. And if I died out here in the middle of nowhere, my parents would kill me! As it turned out, the Miracle Tang worked. I survived the night and made it home a month later. And, after losing 15 pounds during the trip, I was relieved to be back in a land of clean water, electricity and properly labeled anti-parasite medications. I also began to realize that the experience was far from a misstep off the path to a fulfilling career and an exciting life. It was the path—or a segment of the path, anyway. What I gained from the Madagascar experience far outweighed what I originally thought the opportunity could offer me. Because when I was not studying lemurs, I was playing with the village children, taking thousands of photographs and keeping a journal on my observations of life in a developing country where children in remote areas never even get the opportunity to learn the language of education or business (in this case French), where the infant mortality rate is more than 10 times that in the U.S. and where endemic plants and animals are tragically and rapidly being destroyed. When I returned to school that fall, I put together a photo exhibit juxtaposing pictures of Madagascar’s children with the broken landscapes they will one day inherit, hoping to elicit from the audience the same question with which I was struggling: What will be left for these children? Seeing the lack of public health services where I had lived further drew me to the field of public health. And I couldn’t stop writing about what I had witnessed, if only to organize the thoughts that haunted my mind every time I ate a meal that did not consist of rice and beans, or took a shower that did not come from a 2-gallon plastic bag filled with water I had drawn from a well and laid out to warm in the sun. Little by little, the lessons I gathered from what I thought was a random summer in Madagascar seemed to weave together a picture of my future that I hadn’t seen clearly before. I realized my interests in writing, photography, health, environment, science and international development were not disparate after all. I did not have to follow a prescribed path deeply into one field at the expense of my passion for the others. I was not flailing, as I had felt I was for most of college! All it took was a few parasites and a couple groups of lemurs to show me that I really was moving forward, on my own path. Following these varied interests led me to: work in the fields of public health and international development; write for numerous publications; intern at National Geographic and other magazines and newspapers; create photographic documentaries, travel extensively, earn a master’s degree in medical journalism and try my hand at freelance writing and photography. I cringe to think what I might be doing now if I had never taken a risk and ventured to Madagascar or to the many other places and jobs I’ve landed along the way. If I had stuck to a path that was safer, one where I seized opportunities only if I knew exactly where they would lead, I would be lost in someone else’s world right now. As you prepare to graduate, you may or may not have given much thought to your career path. Regardless, you will probably feel pressured at some point, by your peers, your parents, your professors or your employers to head in a direction that is of their liking, and which may be quite far from yours. You may be tempted by the careers that many consider the most prestigious. And those careers can be great options for people who are passionate about them. But open your eyes to the limitless possibilities that await you. You owe it to yourself and the world in which you live to find something—or always keep searching for it if it eludes you—that you love, that you are good at and that will give you the opportunity to contribute in some way to the society in which you live. As you head off to college, your world will broaden. You will encounter courses on topics of which you’ve never heard. You will meet professors and visiting lecturers who are the most accomplished researchers or practitioners in their fields. You will befriend students with life experiences very different from your own, and from whom you will learn quite a bit. The opportunities will be endless. But they may also take more effort to find—both inside and outside the scope of your university—and to whittle down to manageable proportions. They can be overwhelming. So here are a few tips that might help you discover your own path—one that balances career and life and brings in an income. (Yes, you have to do something that will get you off your parents’ payroll.) First, be adventurous. Seek out and try new things even when you don’t know where they’ll lead you —whether they are unusual jobs or research opportunities, travel that might be less than comfortable or even dates with people who aren’t your perfect match on paper. Trial and error is your best friend. Second, if you haven’t already, learn to communicate well. And I’m not talking about texting. A strong communicator can talk or write her way to success in any field. You could be a world-class engineer, but it will still be difficult to land your dream job without a convincing cover letter or, in the very least, an introductory email that involves proper punctuation, the word “you” spelled “y-o-u” instead of just “u” and a distinct lack of smiley faces. If you develop a treatment for a life-threatening disease but can’t for the life of you put together a journal article or presentation that demonstrates the strength of your trials, you’re out of luck. And so is the rest of the world. So make sure you can write and speak persuasively. Third, speaking of journals, please learn how to read and evaluate—even in a basic sense—a scientific journal article. I don’t care if you plan to be an English major or if you took a vow of scientific celibacy following your AP biology exam. In the age of infotainment, don’t take anyone’s word for anything. You have easier access to information than any previous generation, so learn how to use it well. Go straight to the source and figure out how to devour it to become a more informed citizen. Fourth, learn to listen to the other point of view—with grace. (I’m still struggling with this one.) Very few things in life are clear-cut, and the grey zone is what makes life interesting. You will open many more doors for yourself if you can be sympathetic and practical than if you are simply arrogant. Fifth, get out of your bubble—whatever your personal bubble may be. There is always more of the world to soak in and try to understand. I can’t encourage you enough to study abroad and stay with a foreign family. Learn another language. Volunteer on the opposite side of town from where you grew up. Or take a class that sounds intriguing even if you might not earn an “A.” Sixth, find balance between work and play. Until now, you have had a fairly regimented schedule of required courses and sports practices and family obligations. Now it’s pretty much up to you. And you will struggle for the rest of your life to find the proper balance of your time. Sometimes you will fail and pay the consequences, but always try to regain that balance—it’s worth it, especially once you have a family. And lastly, develop your powers of discernment. Learn to distinguish what is right for you—based on your own strengths, interests and experiences—from the path that is simply popular or expected. High school, I hope, has prepared you well for the future of your choosing. But let the process be one of trial and error. Seek out all types of adventures and learn from them. Learn what you enjoy learning. Learn how you enjoy spending your day. Learn the level of stress that prods you into productivity but keeps you from becoming institutionalized. And learn what you dream of for your future family, so you can find the balance to realize those dreams.
You don’t have to be fighting parasites in the middle of Madagascar to find your path. In fact, your parents would probably appreciate if your path were a little tamer. But don’t sell yourself short. You have already demonstrated in high school that you are prepared to take the world by storm. So do just that. The world awaits you. Congratulations!
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The world feels off-kilter right now; my family and I are trying to re-orient after losing my beloved grandpa, John Bean, last week. It's difficult to imagine how we'll get along without him. He lived 93 years and made the most of each one. (If you need some inspiration to get out and make a difference in your community, just check out his obituary.) Because of his service during World War II, it seems fitting to write about him on this Memorial Day.
My heart swelled as I read several comments on his obituary guest book calling him "the greatest of the Greatest Generation." Of course I've always thought of my grandparents that way, but it makes me proud to see that others felt the same. Among the many roles he assumed throughout his life, Grandpa was first and foremost a husband, father and pilot. He was endlessly generous. He taught us to live deliberately and by the highest moral standards. He also taught us that true love really can last a lifetime. (He leaves behind my grandma, his bride of 71 years.) Just this Mother's Day, I posted a 1958 photo he took of Grandma, whom he called "the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." Grandpa was passionate about cameras and, for my 7th birthday, gave me my first one. That gift shifted my perspective of the world; since then my favorite view has been from behind the lens. Over the next 20 years, he often passed along camera gear to me as it became apparent that I'd also caught the photography bug. (Last year I wrote here about the Leica collection he gave me.) In this and many other ways, his influence on my life has been profound. Grandpa was blessed to have a comfortable end, surrounded by his family. As he set an example for us in the way he lived, he also set one in dying with grace. He was calm, at peace, accepting. Nora and I flew to Florida last week for Grandpa's memorial service. The evening after the service, we wandered down to the beach with my mom, sister and niece. We have years—decades, really—of memories on that beach from our annual visits to my grandparents. It just happened that we caught the sun setting, injecting a golden lining into the massive, ink-blue storm clouds that were rolling in. As a pilot, Grandpa's heart belonged to sky. Now the rest of him does, too, and it felt like he was sending a final farewell. Thank you, Grandpa, for being the greatest of the greatest. I love you! Is that a movie star? Nope. It's a 1958 photo of the ever-stunning Ruth Leslie Bean, my grandma. It is one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of photos my grandpa, John Bean, has taken of Grandma over their 71 years of marriage. He recently told my mom he takes so many photos of Grandma because she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. (I'm tearing up just repeating those words.) My post last year about Grandma remains one of my most viewed. Since today is Mother's Day, and I've always thought of Grandma as "the ultimate mom," as a mother to six, grandmother to 16 and great-grandmother to 27, I thought today would be a meaningful time to share a few more of her thoughts on motherhood. Four and a half years ago, when I was newly married and not yet a mom, I got the seedling of an idea to interview my grandmothers and mother about their expectations and perceptions of motherhood. I wasn't sure what I would do with the interviews—and I'm still not—and have only completed two of the three—it turns out babies make it difficult to conduct interviews, but I'll be calling soon, Grandma Connors! At some point I will finish that last interview and pull them together into something cohesive. In the meantime, let's rewind four and a half years to when Grandma Bean was a mere 87 years old. Here are a few notes from her interview. I worried I had missed the chance to talk to Grandma about motherhood. Over the last few years, her short-term memory had deteriorated, and signs were emerging that she was beginning to struggle with her long-term memory, too. I pulled Mom aside and asked whether she thought Grandma could still speak to her expectations of motherhood and what it means to be a mother. Mom said she thought the topic was so close to Grandma's heart that she would still be able to talk about it. The mercury was hovering in the mid-teens with a wind chill well below zero as Mom and I drove to Grandma and Grandpa's apartment. Gusting snow blanketed the rush hour traffic—a typical Minnesota evening. Grandma was wearing her Coach sneakers. We sat on the sofas they've had as long as I can remember, which were recently recovered in a powder blue floral pattern. Grandpa sat with us and chimed in when he could. Mom helped spur Grandma to talk about things she knew were important to her. Grandma did speak fluently. In fact, for the first time in several years, I felt like my old Grandma was back. Something inside her came alive as she spoke of her children and the values she hoped she instilled in them. To be good. To make the world a bit better. To love one another. I expect it will become more and more difficult to draw that part of her out, but what a gift today was for me. What a gift to see her glow when she spoke of the dearest subject of her life: motherhood. Here are a few of my favorite short excerpts from the interview. JCS: What were your expectations going into motherhood? RLB: I guess I was overwhelmed with love for my children. My expectation was that, of course, we would always love our children and that we hoped they would forgive us for our mistakes as we were raising them. But I just expected that everything was going to go perfectly, and it did. [Laugh] JCS: What do you owe your children? RLB: Love. Unconditional love. That’s the first thing. You owe them a sense of stability. I think you owe them an example. You are there example. And, therefore, you have an obligation to be a decent person. JCS: How much of your energy do you owe your children? RLB: It’s a complicated question. JBB (Grandpa): Well, you gave them all your energy. That’s why you’re so tired now! RLB: I gave them all my energy! Well, I think when they’re little you owe all your energy to them. JCS: Is there anything else you want to add about being a mom? How important has it been in your life? RLB: [Laugh] How important has it been? It’s been my life. Who could put it better? Happy Mother's Day to you and yours!
I planned to post a batch of photos today from our trip to Florida last week, but instead I'm writing a memorial to our dear old buddy Austin, our nearly 12-year-old black lab/shepherd who died unexpectedly yesterday morning. (Above: One of my favorite photos of all time. Jeff and Austin: A guy and his dog.) He died peacefully in the care of his vet, but it happened so fast that we were still out of town. I've spent the last 36 hours fixated on the fact that we didn't even know he was sick (it was cancer—everywhere) and that we didn't make it home in time to say goodbye. And, of course, I feel guilty that the dogs went from being our babies to being second-class citizens once our girls arrived on the scene. So I'm trying to pick myself up by the boot straps this afternoon and remember all the happy times we had together. Austin became Jeff's sidekick at 6 weeks, when Jeff came across some people who were giving away a litter of abandoned puppies they'd found. Jeff, who had just graduated from college, took one look at Austin and knew they were meant for each other. Who could resist this tiny guy? Austin came into my life more than six years ago when I met Jeff in grad school. I got my own puppy, Finn, that fall. Austin and Finn quickly became best friends and then brothers. And Austin became just as much mine as he was Jeff's. "The boys," as we referred to them, played and romped and chased and barked and got into lots and lots of mischief together over the years. They road tripped with us to Pennsylvania, Minnesota, Colorado, many beaches in North Carolina and just about everywhere in between. Some of my favorite memories with Austin include hiking and snowshoeing with him through the Colorado Rockies. I promise the boys are just playing around here. They were such nut jobs together! Doesn't he look just like Ferdinand the bull under the tree? Our 2009 Christmas card photo. One of Nora's first words was "dog." She would crawl over to the door, pull up and watch Austin and Finn playing outside while telling them: "Dog. Dog. Dog." I'll never forget Austin's companionship while I was pregnant and incapacitated by nausea and vomiting. He was always at my side while I lay on the couch too weak and sick to get up. And when I managed to run to the bathroom to throw up, he would follow to check on me, with great concern.
He was terrified of thunderstorms and once became so panicked when a tornado came through town that he climbed behind the toilet to hide and got stuck. He barked all the time, and we were always yelling at him to be quiet. Now the house is too quiet. Cricket loved taking him for walks. Jeff would walk ahead with Austin while I pushed the double stroller. Cricket would watch Austin investigating things and comment on whatever he did. It was her lucky day if she got to watch him poop! Jeff has so many fond memories of Austin from the years before I knew them, but I could never do those stories justice. Let's just say they got into plenty of trouble together. Here's to you, Austie Bear! Thank you for being our best buddy for 12 years. We love you to no end and will miss you every day. We are forever seeking treasures on our morning walks. We don't always know what we’re searching for, but we always know when we've found it—a grazing deer, an interesting pinecone, a hawk on the hunt. One morning this fall, we came across the heart-shaped leaf with a heart-shaped hole above. Cricket gingerly held it against her stroller blanket as I took a photo, so we could keep admiring it later.
The sweet memory of Cricket awed by this unique leaf sprang up when we were thinking of making Valentines for the girls to send to their cousins. I ended up designing this flip card and wanted to share it with you, too. Now back to the theme of searching...Every once in a while I bust out with some unsolicited advice for friends who have yet to find their soul mates. The advice often follows a similar format: "Make sure to marry someone who will still love you after he/she sees (fill in the blank) happen to you." (The delivery room is a weird place, people.) Or: "Make sure the person you marry is the one you want holding your hand when you experience (fill in the blank with something awful or amazing)." I'm sure my words of wisdom are always very helpful and thoroughly appreciated. Last week, I experienced another scenario to add to my advice list: Make sure the person you marry is the one you want standing beside you, propping you up as you watch a nurse carry your little one down the seemingly endless hallway to the operating room. (When I looked up at Jeff and knew we were feeling the exact same fear and love for our daughter in that moment, it only confirmed for the millionth time that I had chosen right. And so had he.) Happy Valentine's Day to those still searching and to those whose search is very much over! (Last year on this day, I wrote about my love letter to my family.) Goodness this year has been a blur—one filled with absolute joy and absolutely sleepless nights; with happy, healthy development and loads of viruses (oh, the weird diseases you get with kids around!); with giggles and tears.
But above all, it has been a year filled with profound thankfulness for all we have been given, all we have created and the future we seek together. Two years ago, Thanksgiving took on a new meaning for us. I'll never forget the moment I glanced up at the clock in the hospital triage room and realized our first baby was going to arrive on this special day. In fact, I can still barely respond without choking up when someone asks me Cricket's birthday. "She's our Thanksgiving turkey!" I joke to keep the tears at bay, so grateful I am for the little girl who transformed me into a mother. What timing she had. This year, I am grateful for the doubling of my joy. Nora chose her own day to greet the world. No official holiday—just a beautiful, bright afternoon in May. We first gazed at her as parents who, though a bit more seasoned than we were the first time around, still wondered how we could ever do right by this new life, how we could ever measure up in the face of perfection. I'm sure we never will, but I am thankful for the certainty that we will never stop trying. Our family extends far, far beyond the walls of our home, and for each member I am grateful. In the last year, our family has propped us up and walked with us when we were too exhausted or too sick or too anxious to move forward alone. How could we ever repay such selflessness? Despite these blessings, I know several of our family and close friends are struggling through very difficult circumstances this Thanksgiving. My heart is with them, with those on whom they lean and with those who lean on them. I am incredibly grateful that they somehow find the strength each morning to climb out of bed, put one foot in front of the other and fight for their lives. I could go on forever listing the things for which I am thankful, but enough of my rambling. Go enjoy your turkey. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours! Above: Japanese maple in our yard. Below: Red leaf at the neighborhood playground. I've been longing for the time and brain power to write an essay about having a newborn in the house again—about the things I had already forgotten and how different the experience is the second time around. But collecting my thoughts into anything coherent, let alone stringing words together to express those thoughts, has seemed impossible lately. So I'm going the list route. In honor of Nora's 2-month birthday this week, here are a few notes I've jotted down since she arrived, along with her 2-month portraits. Things I had forgotten about having a newborn:
Differences the second time around:
Have you considered donating your baby's umbilical cord blood to a public cord blood bank? We're proud to report that we donated Nora's to the Carolinas Cord Blood Bank—a nonprofit housed at my alma mater, Duke—where it will be used for a cord blood/bone marrow transplant or research to improve these types of transplants.
We had tried to donate Cricket's cord blood, but she arrived on a holiday and the collection team was off that day. This time around, we delivered at a hospital that doesn't participate in the program, so we had to do some work ahead of time. The process was fairly simple. First I called the bank and did a short screening interview by phone, during which they asked me lots of questions about my risk factors for various diseases and conditions that could be passed through the blood. (The interview included multiple questions phrased in different ways to determine whether I was, in fact, a prostitute. Luckily, I'm not.) After passing the initial screening, the bank sent us a collection kit the size of a small picnic cooler to bring to the delivery, along with half an inch of additional screening paperwork and forms for the doctor to sign. I filled out most of the paperwork ahead of time, then we carted the kit with us to the hospital on the big day. The admitting nurse drew several extra tubes of blood when I arrived, which the bank would use to test for various diseases. The rest of the collection work fell to the doctor post-delivery while we were busy cuddling Nora. Once the cooler was packed, we called the bank to let them know the donation was ready. They sent a courier to pick it up from the hospital the following day. Why was I intent on donating the cord blood? As a freshman and sophomore in college, I created a photo documentary about a young boy with a rare immune deficiency who was treated at Duke and ended up requiring a cord blood transplant. Sadly, he passed away shortly after the transplant from complications. I also lost another dear little friend that year after a stem cell transplant failed to cure her cancer. We donated Nora's cord blood in memory of those two friends. What a way to enter the world, my sweet Nora! It will be an emotional day when she is old enough to understand how a part of her may have saved the life of another child. Would you like to consider donating your baby's cord blood to a public bank? Click here for information on the Carolinas Cord Blood Bank. Click here for a list of additional banks involved with the National Cord Blood Inventory Program. (I mentioned above that we failed to donate Cricket's cord blood. Happily, we found another type of donation to make together; we collected more than 200 ounces of breast milk to donate to a local breast milk bank for preterm and other ill babies. When I get a chance, I'll share that unusual and rewarding experience with you.) Image above via Carolinas Cord Blood Bank We had so much fun on our last "last trip" before the baby arrives (see posts on Hilton Head and Savannah) that we decided to sneak away just one more time. This weekend we headed to Emerald Isle and Beaufort, NC, with one of my sisters and her family.
While we were on the road, my husband told me he brought two boards and my wetsuit in case I wanted to surf. Then he looked over at my belly and said, "Oops, I guess your wetsuit probably won't fit right now." Yeah, probably not. It took him another moment and a searing look from me to realize that paddling out on a pregnant belly would be impossible, not to mention stupid. So he and my brother-in-law surfed the weekend's almost-non-existent waves together instead, surrounded by dolphins (above). The house we rented sat right on the nearly empty beach. We walked, grilled and played mini golf, during which my baby niece insisted on holding a club the entire time while sitting in her stroller and my daughter insisted on holding a golf ball in each hand. It was lovely and relaxing, despite the fact that we were all experiencing various stages of the same illness. (We learned this year that along with all the joys, having kids means introducing a continual string of plagues into your life.) On Sunday afternoon, we headed north to Beaufort, where we wandered around the historic waterfront, spied wild horses across the bay on Carrot Island and dined outside at the delightful Beaufort Grocery. After my freshman year in college, I spent a summer at the Duke Marine Lab on Pivers Island (below), just over the bridge from Beaufort. Somehow it's been 11 years since that summer. Ouch. I decided it was high time I introduced my husband and daughter(s) to this special place. Our visit may have technically been more of a break-in, thanks to a "new" security gate—one that had been installed at some point over the last decade. But man was it fun to be there. Even the post-St. Patty's Day vomit sprinkled around the quad brought me right back to the good old days. After posing for a photo with Cricket at the best happy hour spot in North Carolina (below), we headed home, where we're settling in for the long haul. This week marked a bittersweet occasion for me as a photographer, mother and granddaughter; I sold the little Leica collection my grandpa passed down to me about a decade ago, which included two M6 bodies and several lenses. The selling of old gear may not sound significant to a non-photographer, but Leicas are the darlings of the photo world. They're a collector's dream. And oh boy, did the guy at the camera shop I sold them to drool when he got his hands on them. For about a year, my Leicas traipsed around the world with me. They accompanied me to Paris, where I studied black and white photography at the wacky Studio Vermes, and all over Europe. They even joined me for a few months in Madagascar, where we lived together in a tent and shot mountains of color slides. There we took one of my favorite photos of all time—of a toddler in a nearby village (below). I never quite got her name (Or his? It’s hard to tell when a child wears only rags and has a head shaved to treat lice), but it sounded like Penelope Sue, so that’s how I still think of her. To me, the photo screams Madagascar: impoverished and dusty but still gorgeous. And then my world suddenly turned digital. I continued to lug my Leicas from home to home as I finished college, moved to a new city, moved again to start graduate school and then got married and bought a house. But in each new place, I simply relegated them to a new closet—where they’ve sat for the better part of the last decade. I’m neither a collector nor a hoarder, so it was beginning to feel as though they were losing their place in my life.
Last weekend, as I was yet again lamenting the quality of my current camera (a Canon Rebel XT) and fantasizing about an upgrade, my brother-in-law suggested I sell the Leicas to fund a new camera. It was the first time the idea actually seemed worth the sentimental loss. I mulled it over for a few days before hauling the equipment to a local camera store to see how much it was worth. It turns out I was sitting on a gold mine, which I suspected but never had the guts to have it appraised. I hauled the Leicas back home to debate. What would it mean to sell them? As a photographer, I would be able to fund a serious and necessary camera upgrade. I’d also lose a valuable collection. But I’m not a collector, so… As a mother, I would gain a camera capable of better preserving memories of my kids. I’d also have quite a bit of extra cash to purchase the double stroller that could become the key to my sanity in just two months and the play kitchen I’ve been coveting for Cricket to help occupy her while I’m tending to the new baby. Plus I'd still have a chunk of change to put away for a future home improvement project. As a granddaughter, I would lose a precious gift from my 92-year-old grandpa. My sister reminded me, however, that my grandparents are the least sentimental people ever and would completely understand. She also suggested I shoot some nice photos of the cameras to hang in my eventual studio, which seemed like a nice way to memorialize them. It became clear that the benefits of selling the Leicas outweighed those of keeping them in the closet for another decade. Feeling justified, I took the leap and unloaded them this morning…and came home with a fat check. Whew. Yikes. Yippee! I’m not allowing myself to look back. Instead, I’m researching my new camera. Perhaps the Canon 7D? |
My new book is out! Click to learn more about it.Hello thereI'm Julia Soplop, writer and photographer. I believe there is something profound in bearing witness to moments of joy and pain in others’ lives. My husband, three girls and I live outside of Chapel Hill, NC. You can read more about me here.
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