Most of us women seem to be hard wired from birth to be nurturers. If we become pregnant this quality kicks into high gear and never recedes. We are the worriers, the caregivers, the ones who often sacrifice to make sure everyone else is doing well.
When my husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer that worrying and caregiver role was raised to an even higher level. I worried not only about my husband but my children and my parents. I felt I needed to be the one to provide the strength to keep them all together spiritually. That fierce protective spirit that a mother bear feels for her cubs kicked in and I was determined to do whatever I could to keep everyone feeling strong and positive.
Luckily, by the time we told all of them I had had time to work through the shock stage of hearing the word, cancer and could be there for them as they moved on through denial and acceptance. That journey is not an easy one but I could at least reassure them as they moved through it. For me there were days of walking through the house like a zombie and others when I sat and wept but some of the most difficult times were the fragile days when I could hold it together until I saw someone I knew and they asked me how I was.
Of course the role of nurturer can be exhausting and you need to have something to restore your energy. Photography and kayaking are my therapy. Both activities can remove me from the stress of the real world and renew my spirit. However, kayaking was out of the question with the waterways covered in ice and since we received the diagnosis, my photographing essentially stopped. I needed to print work quickly for some shows that I had committed to and finish some prints for orders but actually going out to create new work seemed impossible. I just didn’t have the energy or desire. For three months I shot nothing.
Then in January, my friend, Susan called me to invite me to her cottage in Door County for a week of photography. Every year she hosts a group of women artist friends for a winter escape. They rent the garret space at a local art school for a week and paint during the day. I don’t paint but I could have the time during the day to wander the countryside and photograph.
It sounded glorious to me but it meant leaving Buz alone a month before the scheduled surgery and I struggled with whether I should go. I told him about Susan’s call and he told me I absolutely needed to go. I didn’t commit right away but let it sit there for a few days marinating in my head. I decided to go, but not for the whole week.
I packed all my gear in the car including snowshoes and my winter coat that makes me look like the Michelin Tire mascot. It would be really cold but I didn’t care. I took my time driving up on Monday, skirting Lake Michigan and marveling at the sun glinting off the water and glazed snow. A storm had moved through the area over the weekend coating everything with a treacherous later of ice.
I arrived at the art school in the late afternoon for a quick hello before heading to Peninsula State Park for some photos. The road was glare ice and I crept along looking for some interesting shots. I pulled over before Weborg Point, put Yaktrax on my boots, grabbed my cameras and began photographing the expanse of snow and grass leading to the lake. Though it was extremely cold, the light was phenomenal and I could feel my whole body rejoice as I took my first shots in several months. If I captured no other images during my time here it would be okay. This magic hour was enough.
This would not be the only magic I would experience during the next three days, however. In sharp contrast to the frigid temperatures of the day was the warmth of the evenings spent with a group of remarkable women. We usually met at a restaurant for dinner after our respective days of creating and then retired to the cottage for some rousing games of Boggle and Mexican Train Dominoes. We shared travel stories, art ideas and wine.
One of the days we gathered for dinner at the vacation home of our friend, Jean. She had a few of the women staying with her for the week, also. I think there were twelve of us there that evening. They are all phenomenal, creative, strong women and I felt honored to be among them. Everyone brought something to share- chili, bread, salad, appetizers, dessert and of course, wine. It was a delicate dance in the kitchen as we shared cutting boards, assembled dishes and tried to keep our wine glasses straight.
The energy level generated by these women was such that I am sure our little spot could have been detected from space. I felt enveloped in the love, laughter and celebrative spirit that permeated the house. As we gathered around the table to share the food I said, “I feel like I am in one big womb.
By the end of the meal, teasing had commenced and good natured barbs were slung across the table. After a few zingers had been scored, someone looked at me and said, “Still feel like the womb?” …and we all laughed.
So I spent my days exploring the back roads and lake shore through my lens and my evenings sharing time with friends. What an incredible gift. I returned home on Thursday with 15 rolls of film and a restored spirit, ready to resume my nurturing role with a smile.
When my husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer that worrying and caregiver role was raised to an even higher level. I worried not only about my husband but my children and my parents. I felt I needed to be the one to provide the strength to keep them all together spiritually. That fierce protective spirit that a mother bear feels for her cubs kicked in and I was determined to do whatever I could to keep everyone feeling strong and positive.
Luckily, by the time we told all of them I had had time to work through the shock stage of hearing the word, cancer and could be there for them as they moved on through denial and acceptance. That journey is not an easy one but I could at least reassure them as they moved through it. For me there were days of walking through the house like a zombie and others when I sat and wept but some of the most difficult times were the fragile days when I could hold it together until I saw someone I knew and they asked me how I was.
Of course the role of nurturer can be exhausting and you need to have something to restore your energy. Photography and kayaking are my therapy. Both activities can remove me from the stress of the real world and renew my spirit. However, kayaking was out of the question with the waterways covered in ice and since we received the diagnosis, my photographing essentially stopped. I needed to print work quickly for some shows that I had committed to and finish some prints for orders but actually going out to create new work seemed impossible. I just didn’t have the energy or desire. For three months I shot nothing.
Then in January, my friend, Susan called me to invite me to her cottage in Door County for a week of photography. Every year she hosts a group of women artist friends for a winter escape. They rent the garret space at a local art school for a week and paint during the day. I don’t paint but I could have the time during the day to wander the countryside and photograph.
It sounded glorious to me but it meant leaving Buz alone a month before the scheduled surgery and I struggled with whether I should go. I told him about Susan’s call and he told me I absolutely needed to go. I didn’t commit right away but let it sit there for a few days marinating in my head. I decided to go, but not for the whole week.
I packed all my gear in the car including snowshoes and my winter coat that makes me look like the Michelin Tire mascot. It would be really cold but I didn’t care. I took my time driving up on Monday, skirting Lake Michigan and marveling at the sun glinting off the water and glazed snow. A storm had moved through the area over the weekend coating everything with a treacherous later of ice.
I arrived at the art school in the late afternoon for a quick hello before heading to Peninsula State Park for some photos. The road was glare ice and I crept along looking for some interesting shots. I pulled over before Weborg Point, put Yaktrax on my boots, grabbed my cameras and began photographing the expanse of snow and grass leading to the lake. Though it was extremely cold, the light was phenomenal and I could feel my whole body rejoice as I took my first shots in several months. If I captured no other images during my time here it would be okay. This magic hour was enough.
This would not be the only magic I would experience during the next three days, however. In sharp contrast to the frigid temperatures of the day was the warmth of the evenings spent with a group of remarkable women. We usually met at a restaurant for dinner after our respective days of creating and then retired to the cottage for some rousing games of Boggle and Mexican Train Dominoes. We shared travel stories, art ideas and wine.
One of the days we gathered for dinner at the vacation home of our friend, Jean. She had a few of the women staying with her for the week, also. I think there were twelve of us there that evening. They are all phenomenal, creative, strong women and I felt honored to be among them. Everyone brought something to share- chili, bread, salad, appetizers, dessert and of course, wine. It was a delicate dance in the kitchen as we shared cutting boards, assembled dishes and tried to keep our wine glasses straight.
The energy level generated by these women was such that I am sure our little spot could have been detected from space. I felt enveloped in the love, laughter and celebrative spirit that permeated the house. As we gathered around the table to share the food I said, “I feel like I am in one big womb.
By the end of the meal, teasing had commenced and good natured barbs were slung across the table. After a few zingers had been scored, someone looked at me and said, “Still feel like the womb?” …and we all laughed.
So I spent my days exploring the back roads and lake shore through my lens and my evenings sharing time with friends. What an incredible gift. I returned home on Thursday with 15 rolls of film and a restored spirit, ready to resume my nurturing role with a smile.
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