Snow Pictures

by Kevin Deeny

  He noted that his new-found interest in photography caused him to expand his awareness; he now noticed the detail and richness of things, places and people that he had walked passed all of his life. He became alert to the change in the quality and movement of light and how, for instance, the same scene projected an entirely different mood at sunset than it did at noon. He also developed a fondness for photographing snow scenes. These scenes were often a little more difficult for him because of the high contrast, and he enjoyed the technical challenge. Yet another, perhaps more compelling reason for taking snow pictures, is that he enjoyed the solitude. A new snowfall has a profound impact; it slows life down and causes most people to stay sheltered indoors. The thrum of traffic is muted for a time, and the world becomes silent. A new blanket of snow in morning light is a specular joy that never fails to invigorate him and reminds him how much, as a child, it seemed almost magical. He was at peace in the quiet, free to let his mind roam, as he trekked through the snow in search of a clean and fresh perspective.

  The walls in his home were full of his prints, and he derived great pleasure in giving them away. All of his friends had more than one of his photographs on their walls. At times when he couldn’t sleep or when he was turning over a particularly difficult problem in his mind, he would roam through the house and look at each of the images and be taken back to the places he had photographed. Each one told a story and had a different ‘feel’ to it. It was that kind of connection he looked for in his photography. He could be immediately taken back to the scene because he lived it; it was his experience that produced the image. Yet, when someone else viewed one of his photographs and connected to it in some way, he considered it successful.

  He remembered the black and white images taken in the 1930s of Grand Central Station with sunlight streaming in from the high set windows that illuminated patches of floor below as people moved through it. The photos took him back to Levittown as a toddler to one of his earliest memories. The afternoon sun would shine through a back bedroom window and paint a patch of golden yellow light on the floor. He could ‘see’ the sunshine in the dust particles it illuminated, and the rays were just as distinct as those he saw in the old photographs. He would lay down in this patch of light, feel its warmth, and feel safe and secure for the few minutes it existed. As a toddler, he had learned to look for it each day and seek it out.

  Recalling those moments in the patch of light he thought, “It’s funny what a photograph can bring to mind.”

  Chapter 25

  Death of a Child

  While we try to teach our children all about life, our children are teaching us what life is all about. – Angela Schmidt

  The state park boasts of 22 waterfalls spread across 13,000 acres that intersects 3 counties in Pennsylvania. The park has been on Marcus’ list to photograph for some time, and he was anxious to get outdoors and stretch his legs this weekend. It had been a busy spring; organic farming was growing fast and Marcus was looking forward for some downtime to unwind. Rosalind planned to visit her mother over the weekend and help her sort through her Grandad’s belongings. It was nearly a full year since his passing, and there was still so much to do.

  At the end of the workday on Friday, they both got back to the house for a quick dinner and each left in separate directions with a plan to return in time for a quiet Sunday dinner. Marcus checked in to a hotel room near the state park, studied the online trail maps and planned his route. He checked that his batteries were all charged, including his spares, and retired early so that he could be up before sunrise. He had just fallen asleep, it seemed when the alarm went off in the morning, but he shook off the tiredness, showered and left the room quickly, anxious to be in place to capture the morning light.

  He chose a path that would bring him along the left branch of the trail which would pass the majority of the waterfalls, climb about 600 feet in elevation, and end up near a recreational lake. Marcus thought if he moved quickly, he could return along the right branch of the trail and catch all of the waterfalls before he lost the light. The morning start was all he hoped for; he was able to capture two of the waterfalls with a lingering mist in the dappled morning “sweet” light that pierced the tree canopy in misty angles. He encountered no one else on the trail at that time of day and spent the first few hours in resonance with the places he hiked through.

  He moved from location to location along the trail, unpacking and repacking his camera and tripod at every stop. Even though his digital camera had a built-in exposure meter and automatic functions, he checked exposure himself with a hand-held meter, made the necessary mental calculations and adjusted the camera to manual settings before taking the shot. In an abundance of caution, he would turn the camera back to Auto to capture another one. He would compare the images later. He knew that with the filtered light under the canopy, long exposure times would be required which would turn the movement of the falling water into a cottony stream; an effect he enjoyed. At the very first waterfall, he already decided to return in the winter to re-shoot the scenes in the snow. He was confident they would be spectacular.

  By early afternoon he reached the head of the left branch of the trail and had doubts of being able to photograph all of the right branch waterfalls before losing the light. His path took him along the lakefront beach moving east to intersect the right branch of the trail. It was a hot day, as expected for late July, and the area was somewhat crowded with picnickers while swimmers, canoers, and kayakers enjoyed themselves in the water. Marcus sat at a picnic table along the perimeter of the beach and munched on an apple while he rested.

  A commotion on the lake stirred him from his daydream. He heard a boy yelling and saw an overturned kayak bobbing in the water. A second kayak was nearby which was quickly making its way to the overturned one. A boy in the back seat was shouting, and as the kayak got near, the man in the front seat removed his life vest, extricated himself without tipping his kayak with his young passenger and dove under the water toward the first kayak. He came up for air and went under again and helped to turn the kayak over. In the front seat was a woman who was sputtering and began to shout as she looked to the back seat where a child was slumped. From a distance, the child appeared to be a little girl. The man pulled the child from the kayak and breathed into her mouth. She seemed to be limp in his arms. He said something to the boy in the kayak which Marcus could not hear and turned toward the shore. He held the young girl by the back loop of her jacket webbing and swam hard for the beach. The woman in the righted kayak trailed behind followed by the boy in the second kayak.

  As Marcus moved toward the beach, others jumped in the water and waded out to meet them. The unconscious girl was brought to the beach and laid down as onlookers gathered around. She was quickly joined by her parents and older brother. “Does anyone know CPR” the father shouted. After a moment’s hesitation to allow others to respond, Marcus stepped forward. He looked at a young man who had gathered as an onlooker and said “Call 911 and get some help on the way now” and turned to the girl, who looked to be about 5 years old and began CPR.

  He noticed immediately when he touched Lily, no energy flowed from him despite his focused intention to push it to her. He settled into a rhythm and counted to pace himself. Giving CPR over a long period of time can be exhausting which Marcus understood from his training course. He stared down at Lily while he worked and saw flashes of her brief life and felt a wave of peace overtake her; one that he experienced himself many years ago. Marcus continued with CPR and noted that the adrenaline had burned off. He stared unfocused into the distance as he flexed with the chest compressions and was oblivious to the people standing around. The sense of peace he now felt became overwhelming as he focused on something beyond with a half-smile that he wasn’t aware of. He stopped CPR, and after a brief pause, Lily’s mother wailed and cried,” Why are you stopping?” Marcus came back to the present and resumed. After several minutes, they heard a d
istant siren and knew that help had finally come. The EMTs took control when they arrived, continued CPR, checked for vital signs, and rushed Lily into the waiting ambulance.

  As the sound of the ambulance receded, Marcus paused to look over the lake and tried to make sense of the experience. He was troubled about why the energy did not flow and if there was anything he could have done differently. Strangely, Marcus felt peace and sadness at the same time. He turned back to gather his belongings at the picnic table, and a police officer approached and took a statement from him before he worked his way down the trail to his car. He knew that there would be a great deal of sorrow in that family tonight and for the foreseeable future.

  He arrived home late Saturday night, piled his gear near the front door and trundle off to bed. It was a restless sleep, and he woke early in the morning, lingered over coffee, and left for a walk. He lived in a vintage clapboard farmhouse outside of a Pennsylvania town that was little more than a village a century ago. It backed up to Blue Mountain, part of the Appalachian Range that tracked up the eastern coast of the US. Most of the mountain in this region is covered by new growth forest; the old growth timber was lumbered out throughout the last century to serve the needs of a rapidly growing country. The mountain range is honeycombed with deep coal mines that supplied anthracite in years past. The legacy of mining in the area can still be seen in the deposits of mine spoils that transit large tracks with the appearance of wasteland, stripped of nutrients and dotted by the tenacious beginnings of regrowth. Occasionally a tipple, inert and brown with rust, can be seen silhouetted on a hillside.

  His walk took him toward town along a road that meandered parallel to a small stream. The sound of the water as it danced around the rocks in the streambed was a familiar and calming symphony. He turned at a cutout along the shoulder of the road and moved to a picnic table, placed by the local civic association many years ago. He avoided the bench seat, brushed off the pine needles and leaf litter and sat on the top facing the stream. He needed to think about the previous day and, as best he could, sort out the experience.

  He knew for sure that Lily was okay and in a place he had glimpsed many years ago. He was concerned for Lily’s family. Marcus expected that the intensity of their sorrow would be profound. He was now familiar with healing of physical ailments, but he had no idea how to heal grief, which would be especially deep due to the loss of a child so young. This will be a hard thing and was aware that how a family moves forward will very much depend on what they believe comes after death. He thought that they might be encouraged to know what he experienced with Lily, but the time was not now to have such a discussion. He had only known this little girl for a few brief moments, but he too mourned her loss even though he knew she was now well. He wondered if his sadness was somehow influenced by the guilt he felt for not being able to bring her back, and he was still perplexed about why the energy did not flow to Lily. He had come to rely on his ability to focus and allow energy to flow through him as he had trained himself to do many years ago. Why not now? Had Lily been called home and it was not up to him to interfere? It gave him pause, but he thought that in time he would come to understand.

  He needed to talk this through with Rosalind. As a doctor, she had experienced the loss of patients before. Marcus was always in awe of her capacity for empathy. He thought of himself as too analytical to be sensitive to emotional needs, even his own, but Rosalind always seemed to be tuned in. He needed her guidance.

  Marcus sat for a while longer adsorbing the peace of this little roadside retreat before he retraced his steps and returned home. He called Rosalind in mid-morning, inquired about her mother, and gave her a brief sketch of the previous day’s events. She was concerned and offered to cut her visit short and come home, but he suggested that she spend the time with her mother as initially planned. They could talk when she got back.

  Marcus spent the rest of the day checking and packing his gear away, moving his image files from his camera to an archive and doing general chores. He prepared a few things that he could cook on the grill when Rosalind got home and went out to tinker in the garage; all the while he was turning the experience over in his thoughts in search of some understanding.

  Rosalind pulled into the driveway in the early evening, and after he greeted her with a hug, she collapsed on the couch to relax while he fired up the grill. At dinner, they talked, and she told him about her visit with her mother and their working weekend around the house. Marcus filled her in on all of the details of Lily’s drowning including his concern that there was no energy flow when he focused his intention on Lily. “I couldn’t help her,” he said.

  “Maybe she was beyond healing at that point and already on her way,” she offered.

  “Perhaps,” he replied, “but as I was giving her CPR, I also found myself with her in the same valley I had been in when I was twelve and she was still connected to this life. The energy just didn’t flow; I couldn’t help her. We stood there together holding hands until she was greeted by her dog, and they played; then she turned to me and said “Bye Mr. Marcus. I have to go now,” and I knew I lost her.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “She knew my name.”

  Rosalind reached out and placed a hand on his arm as tears channeled down his face. He took a deep breath, wiped the tears away, and continued: “I also felt the pain of her parents deeply. They seemed completely unanchored in their grief as they left with the ambulance. I have no idea about how that depth of sorrow can be healed. You’ve experienced the loss of patients before. How do you deal with such a loss and how does the family heal?”

  Rosalind thought for a while before answering and looked down at the table remembering the losses she experienced personally and as a doctor. She looked up and in a quiet voice said “I don’t think that sorrow or grief is something that can be healed in the normal sense. When you heal a body, you are trying to make it whole again, but this family will never be whole again in the same way they were before.”

  She paused while collecting her thoughts and after a moment, continued, “Sorrow is a response to caring; it only exists if love existed first. You can no more “heal” sorrow than you can “heal” love. The often repeated phrase that “Time heals all wounds” is not really healing. Time provides us space to consider again all of the reasons why we cared. Sorrow and love will always coexist. For me personally, I try to mourn the passing of a patient by remembering and respecting the part of their life that I came to know, however brief that was. I am thankful that I feel sorrow because it confirms to me that I cared and I think that what you are feeling is much the same and entirely normal.”

  Marcus nodded as she spoke and felt the truth in what she said. They talked well into the night, and their later lovemaking was intimate and life-affirming. They slept entangled in each other and rose by dawn to face the new day.

  Chapter 26

  To the Mountain

  The mountains are calling and I must go. – John Muir

  Weeks later, the call from Father Tim was unexpected. He was traveling back from Rome in a week and inquired if it would be a good time to get together and catch up. Marcus was more than happy to hear from him and invited him to take a few days off and stay at the house before traveling on to Chicago. Marcus made arrangements to meet him at the airport the following week and then went looking throughout the house to find Rosalind and tell her the good news. When he informed her of Tim’s scheduled visit, she didn’t act as surprised as he expected. He looked carefully at Rosalind, and she couldn’t contain her smile. He grinned back and said to her, “I see, this is a conspiracy.”

  Rosalind held her smile for a few moments which then turned to a knowing expression, “I can’t think of anyone better suited to talk with about your experience with Lily, can you?”

  He closed the distance between them, held her face gently in his hands, looked intensely at her, and said, “No I can’t. Thank-you.”

&n
bsp; Marcus hadn’t seen Father Tim in a few years. They kept in touch since they met at Northwestern, but the occasions to meet were few. Their long-distance conversations turned into a kind of friendship; Tim was older than Marcus by about 5 years, and Marcus slipped into their relationship much like a younger brother. It was mutual, and Tim had kept an interest in Marcus’ healing approach over the years. He never experienced it himself, but respected Marcus enough to be supportive of the progress he was making.

  The following week, Marcus looked for Tim from his location on the ground floor near Baggage Claim and finally noticed him as he entered the top of the escalator. Marcus was surprised to see his salt-and-pepper hair color, but he would know that big grin anywhere. They hugged each other in greeting and Marcus quipped, “The globe-hopping priest has returned. It’s good to see you, Tim.”

  “It’s good to be home Marcus; thank-you. How are you and my favorite doctor, Rosalind?”

  “We are both well. Rosalind is home cooking up a storm for dinner and can’t wait to see you.” He added, “I’m glad your connection through New York was on-time. If we’re lucky, your bags arrived with you,” as they approached the carousel to scan for the well-worn black bag.

  Tim responded, “The connection was fine, but the flight from Rome is still a killer. I hate to be boxed up in a plane that long without being able to really stretch my legs.”