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He sees you…  Like no one else sees you.

It’s almost unnerving.

This child.  This…  little watcher.  In only a tiny glance he takes your measure.  He instinctively know the things…  the things you don’t tell, the things you can’t tell.  That you couldn’t tell if you tried.

Jack know the things.  All of the things.  And somehow, miracle of miracles…  He reaches for your hand anyway.  He is open to you in a way that your heart longs for. The way the whole world is open to you when you are in that happy, warm, hazy space between awake and asleep when the best dream is still there…  Almost close enough to feel with your fingertips.  He takes you in without question.  He loves you for the person you can be, the person you want to be.

How?  How does a little boy who cannot speak say all of this?

Because he is Jack.

And Jack, is magic.

for more of Jack’s story and to learn more about my work, and the work of photographers worldwide, check out Spectrum Inspired,  A beautiful organization I am very proud to be a part of.  

When I was in my early twenties, I wanted to be at the end.  The end of my story.  I was overwhelmed.  Afraid.  Terrified, even.  I didn’t see this exciting chapter as an adventure full of potential.  I saw it as a field of landmines.  No road signs.  Barbed wire.  One wrong misstep and I would blow my whole life.  I just wanted to be  past all of the choices.  I wanted to look at all of those decisions through my rear view mirror.  Serenely.  With wisdom and peace.  I wanted the big decisions to already be made, magically decided with magic zero effort pixie dust, and fine outcomes.  Not perfect, mind you.  I’ve always know that life isn’t perfect.  But I wanted to skip the mess and go straight on to the aged wisdom.  Twenty years later.  I didn’t get pixie dust.  Instead I made choices.  Hard ones.  Easy ones.  Some of them made themselves, for better or worse.  There are still huge decisions now that I’m forty and no longer twenty.  There are still no real road signs.  Or, too many road signs, depending on how you look at it.  I’m still the same me.  Still stumbling.  Still occasionally getting tangled in the barbed wire. If anything, now the stakes are even higher, because I am no longer the only player.  But i’m no longer terrified of my own life.  I know that there are great works ahead of me.  The stage is set, the lights are dimming.  I am in a constant state of butterflies in my stomach, yes.  Butterflies.  Excitement.  Sometimes the nervous giggles, even.  And I let myself feel it.  The uncertainty and the wild spontaneity of a life lived.  In the moment.  This moment.  This spark of joy.  Now.  Big moments on the stage are coming…  Yes.  They’re coming.  But I am learning that the little moments between the big scenes bring their own kind of joy.  Their own unique sweetness.  These are the moments that I want to sink into with my whole heart.  Soak them up through my skin.  Breathe them into my lungs with full, great, slow breaths.  Stay there with those moments until they are part of me, never to leave.  The quiet, in-between joys of an ordinary life. 

When you all go together.

Everywhere.

When you are keeper of all things sacred and important.  Bed times.  Christmas traditions.  Night night songs.

When your pockets are full of treasures…  Rocks.  Broken toys.  Love notes.

You take your sunshine with you.

It’s portable.

You carry it on your hip.  Hold it’s hand in yours.

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