A certain sweetness
Three neighborhood kids, walking west, headed toward their cul-de-sac, haloed with backlight from an early fall sunset.
The girl had long brown hair. The boys wore sports jerseys. They were all talking, bringing their heads close in turn, moving down the sidewalk in careless lockstep. I’d guess they were 10 or 11.
I wished for my camera, but it was miles away, so I took a mental snapshot as I rode by on my bike. The image has stayed with me. Some of the photos I’ve seen but missed remain in my memory, others leave over time. Most of them share common elements. A fleeting moment of interaction, caught in the slanted rays of a waking or waning sun. The urge to capture an ordinary exchange, when something in the light’s aspect transforms it into a snapshot. Moments like those possess a certain sweetness that lingers, sometimes for years. It’s the same way that particular phrase—a certain sweetness—has stayed with me.
The phrase isn’t mine. I adopted it from a friend. She’s a photographer and an accomplished writer. For years, she’s been a quiet hero of mine, though I don’t think I’ve told her that exactly. We shared some time in a memoir writing class, where individuals did a weekly reading from their most recent compositions. One evening, she shared a piece of about living with her young daughters in a place far from home. Her husband was sometimes away for his job, which left her on her own. But the neighborhood women made a habit of gathering to talk and hold one another up, and it helped with the loneliness. My friend grew flowers in her yard. She took care of her daughters. She made new friends. And after awhile, she came to embrace her situation with grace and generosity.
In her writing, she described that time period as one in which her life took on “a certain sweetness.” The phrase stopped me that night. It was perfect. And now, thanks to her, a familiar sensation has been given its proper name.
I know that feeling, when acceptance follows loss and displacement. It’s a sensation that’s almost bittersweet, but not quite. It’s exactly as she said—a certain sweetness. It doesn’t rush in with rainbows and daisies, but it’s deep and it fulfills some necessary part of what heals us after pain or difficulty.
I had been acquainted with her before, but I felt like I began to know her that night. Honest writing reveals character. Her grace and generosity were evident, walking all over the space between her words.
Since that time, my friend has had to face significant seasons of loss. She has responded with grace and generosity every time, along with a strong measure of courage. And she has responded with her camera.
Her antidote for difficult challenges has been to create art through the lens of her Nikon. Her gift of seeing the beautiful things around her was a long-cultivated habit, as I learned when she wrote about her life. Now, as a photographer, she puts that gift to work to lift the rest of us.
Her images of birds and wild places reveal her love of the natural world. Her pictures of people reveal her natural affection for the humans who inhabit it.
She’s my quiet hero because she chooses, in all circumstances, to create worth from what she sees around her, whether she finds it a few steps outside her front door or in some exotic location.
People respond to difficulty in many ways. Responding with art elicits my respect.
When I happen on a snapshot moment, I think of her, and how she adds value to the lives around her. I think of how visual beauty is imbued with its own sweetness, a certain satisfaction of the soul.
And I think of the mental image of three kids, walking home with haloes in the early evening sun.