The books we read and the lives we live

Currently, I'm reading St Francis of Assisi, by Nikos Kazantzakis. It was a wonderful book, written 30 or 40 years ago, and based on the life of St Francis. So far, I'm around 100 pages in, and the main characters have just restored a church, gone naked in the town square, and been disowned by St Francis' father.

Ever feel like you've missed the point? Well, I do. I don't know if I'm just grieving for my gramma and being melancholy, or if I am actually this self absorbed, but I'm hurting. I watch what I say to people when they ask me how I'm doing, I smile and say, Oh its all right, but inside, I'm cold. Having someone close to you die, seeing them dying before you, shocks a person. I'm seeing my life in new light, the mistakes I've made, the successes I've had, the songs I've heard, it's all shaken up. I've measured out my life in coffee spoons, wrote TS Elliot, and like the character he was writing about, I feel unable to see the results once the curtain is drawn back. My life has been shaken, and now I am watching as the pieces fall back down. What surprises me is that things I thought were important, are not. Things I forgot were important, are important again. Suddenly, I am in a direct conversation with my soul, and instead of the little voice it usually has, that barely squeaks over all the distractions I place in my life, I am now listening to the roaring of a perfect storm. The only thing that hasn't changed is the love I have for my wife; if anything, I've told her more times how absolutely amazing she is. I catch myself sometimes just observing how beautiful she is, just being who she is.

When I look at my work as a photographer, I see it as absolutely essential that I continue. I see how important it is to do what I do, and how much of a lasting effect I can have by doing what I love. On church on Sunday, the pastor spoke of the Blues Brothers, and being on a mission from God, and I could relate to what he meant. I know that he was fishing for people to be called to do God's work, but I could still relate. But then when I look at what I do for a living, I feel sad, because that's not God's work. I feel the guilt of suppressing my dreams to make a living. I feel like such an unimaginable failure for not having the courage to seize the day, and to follow my dreams as St Francis in the wilderness. I feel the misplaced rage as I lash out at people that are still submerged in their own little lives, when they place importance on pedantic details that mean nothing. Getting to work 5 minutes earlier by tailgating me earns you a bouquet of fingers, all pointed up. People and their insessant worrying; cramming more and more into a day, and not knowing when enough is enough makes me want to scream. Making themselves so busy they can't hear the silence within; if they did, would they still do the things they do?

The image above was taken in Prince George, in a moment when my life's purpose seemed crystal clear.