Two things I am afraid of:

• letting people down, disappointing them
• poverty in my old age

I tend to blame the first one on my upbringing. Expectations were high, and disappointment strongly felt. I think I can already see the same fear in Ingrid although I have tried to not pass this on, but I guess I am not good at pretending.

As for the second, I don’t really know why I think about this. I don’t worry about growing old, per se. But I do worry (not actively and daily but occasionally and in the back of my mind) about being old, poor and lonely. Like the little old ladies I see in the streets, painfully shuffling along with their shopping bags.

Two traits that I both have and have not.

• Patient. I can be patient and impatient about the same thing at the same time. I can be bubbling with frustration on the inside while telling myself to be patient and acting patient. Above all I am impatient with myself while I make a great effort to be patient with other people. In this as in other things, I am not as kind towards myself as I am towards others.
• Calm. Again something I strive for and most of the time achieve externally but not always internally.

So perhaps these are traits that I pretend to have.
Or: that I don’t quite have but find desirable and strive for.
Or: traits that I do have but that conflict with other parts of me, and therefore get expressed more or less at various times.

Valentine’s day is a week away and Ingrid is thinking of boys, and one special boy in particular. Here she is browsing Valentine-themed images on Google image search, dreaming away.

Better late than never.

At work:

• Grew the development team department from one team to two.

At home:

• In the garden, planted bushes in the front quarter and finished the slope of perennials.
• In photography, struggled mightily with my photography and felt very discouraged, and then finally achieved a kind of peace. Started shooting daily.

Events to remember:

• A weekend at a farm
• First time out camping with the kids
• Trip to Madeira

On our way home after preschool, with Adrian on the sled. He found a really long stick just as we were leaving and played with it all the way home, making tracks in the snow with it etc etc.

This weekend it was raining and most of the snow we had on the ground melted. But then Sunday evening the weather turned colder and the rain turned into snow. Masses and masses of it came down over the past few days. The piles of snow that you see along the fences have all built up in just three days.

On a side note, I am really pleased that we’ve passed the darkest time of the year and that it is still mostly light when we get home.

Eric reading, late at night.

Ten things I am:

• articulate
• detached
• efficient
• independent
• loyal
• moderate
• practical
• reflective
• reserved
• responsible

Ten things I am not:

• bold
• carefree
• emotional
• formal
• gregarious
• jolly
• melancholy
• passionate
• rigid
• spiritual
• unpredictable

As part of the Photographing with Heart and Vision workshop, we did a writing exercise based on the poem Where I’m From by George Ella Lyon.

This is not the kind of thing I normally post here, and much of it will make sense to no one else but me. But as I keep reminding myself, this blog is for me, not for you.

I am from two rooms and a kitchen in a gray concrete apartment block.
From the oak tree outside the kitchen window
and the chestnut tree behind the house
where you could climb as high as the third floor.

I am from endless summers in Kiisa –
from the bowing peonies and fragrant lilacs,
from the kitchen garden with potatoes and strawberries,
from the grass between my bare toes.

I am from oatmeal and boiled potatoes and rich rye bread,
from strawberry jam and cake batter and crumbly berry pies.

I’m from white knee socks and dark blue school uniforms,
from occupation and doublespeak.
From truths that all the adults knew, but that I as a kid couldn’t make sense of.
From queueing for milk, and no cheese today,
from hoarding soap and sewing thread.

I am from my father’s beard,
from the smooth tan and soft smell of my mother’s hands.

I’m from crossword puzzles and crocheting with Grandma,
from hand-knitted socks and scratchy woollen hats.

From distant, bemused benevolence;
from heavy expectations of greatness.
From bullying, and from accidental friends for life.

I am from books, more books,
books read aloud by my mother,
from musty, silent libraries,
from walls lined with bookshelves.

I am from uprooting and moving,
from a country that no longer exists,
from a family tree with half its roots torn off.

Adrian, sullen and angry. He screams and shouts at me and is then angry when I don’t do his bidding and frankly don’t even want to be with him.

Cute puppy face painting by Ingrid.

I am taking a photography workshop again. Each workshop is a big investment of both time and money, but they’re worth it, because I learn so much more through workshops than by reading or practising on my own.

I don’t spend all of those hours with my camera or with editing software, of course. A lot of time goes into reading and thinking about the course materials, looking at other participants’ photos and taking part in discussions.

This current workshop is very different from all the previous ones I’ve taken in that it is about the “soul” of photography, rather than technical topics such as which knobs to twiddle or how to compose a photo. “Photographing with Heart and Vision” it’s called.

My photography is important to me. That keeps surprising me, because it came out of nowhere and I am still not quite sure how it happened. For years I just took occasional snapshots and it didn’t mean anything special to me. And then somehow, as I started learning more about it, it also became more and more important to me.

Perhaps it’s a temporary obsession. It wouldn’t be the first time; I’ve had those before. But some have turned out to be more than that – after close to 10 years of blogging I am still at it; after 15 years of programming it is a rewarding career instead of a little hobby.

I don’t really know why I photograph. I don’t have a clear idea about what I want to achieve, what I want my photos to say. I see that my favourite photos are quite different from most parents’ photos of their kids, and also quite different from most pro photographers’ photos of kids. I occasionally look at others’ photos to find inspiration but mostly just feel alienation. I want to understand my own photography better.

Hence this workshop. There is maybe a little less shooting during this workshop, and a lot more reflection and introspection.

Since this blog is kind of my version of a personal journal, I will be sharing some of that introspection here.