Passion

I have never really consider myself to have a "passion." Sure, there are a lot of things I like to do, even some I love. But I've never had that feeling that other people describe. That feeling that you must do something. That you must paint or sing or create or write; that these things must flow out of your fingertips onto a canvas or paper or keyboard. I always thought it sounded kind of silly, when other people described having passion for something.

I am passionate about my children, I guess you could say. But then, who isn't? That is what children are. A passionate, life-filled existence there for you to guide and nurture and kiss and be enveloped by.


I could stare at these faces all day. I found that I needed a way to capture them more completely, more closely, more descriptively.


I needed a way to remember their scent, the softness of their skin, the delicate wisps of hair that brushed their foreheads.


And I bought my camera.

And then I discovered that I can capture the look and feel of other beautiful things in my life. There are flowers and trees and skies that are normally fleeting, but I can pin them down for a moment.

There is infinite beauty hidden in finite, delicate things.

There are colors of emotion, crispness of scents, waves of feeling.


All of which I can see and capture in an image.


This is my passion. This is a calling of sorts. This is what I do.


I take photos.

I capture images.

I hold onto emotions and feelings and scents and moments.