April 21, 2023
Dateline: Missoula, Montana
It snowed this morning. Again. Wet flakes that didn’t stay long, but long enough to freshen the snow on the hills and cold enough I didn’t feel like putting on my layers of winter clothing, preparing my photo gear, and heading out. I had no idea where to go, even if I did go “out”. I’ve been feeling that way a lot, new to the rawness of the late winter/early spring of Southwestern Montana.
I began the move from the desert of Central Oregon to the vertical landscape of the Missoula area five months ago. Since that time, I hadn’t so much as looked at my camera except to pack it up. Five months away from my passion! It depressed me thinking about what I wasn’t doing, how I wasn’t engaging with my beautiful new surroundings. I wanted my flow to return, but I felt unready. My heart was dull and my feet leaden. I’d have to make a concerted effort to get my heart singing again. I’d have to look for new favorite places, activities, and people to inspire me, having left my old ones behind. I’d have to work at it.
I’d need to discover MY Montana. This can only come with lots of exploring, paying attention, letting it settle into my bones. This would take time and patience and consistency. Montana is a huge place of great variety and history, and Missoula is in its Southwest corner. I typically get to know a place by hitting the road in my Subaru Outback with what a friend called “aggressive” tires. I lived in Oregon for years. I’ve explored a great part of it. But Montana is daunting. I don’t know where to begin. It takes two days to drive from farthest west to farthest east. It means many hours and miles and overnights to begin to explore and understand it, and hopefully someday I’ll come to discover the Montana that speaks to me. It is intimidating.
People say, trust the process. What does that mean, to trust the process?
I bought trail guides, read articles and history books, talked to people, and plotted where I’d explore, no matter the weather. On my first ventures out, I didn’t even take my camera, just my phone, in case I wanted to snap some pics to share. Sometimes I pressed the shutter. Most times, I didn’t. In time, I started taking my camera, just in case. But I didn’t find anything in the scenery to inspire me. Snow, rivers, trees, and tall rugged mountains? Meh. I was missing my open desert landscape. This is ridiculous, I thought. My new home is enchanting. I can’t go on like this. I spent more time just looking, just walking, allowing an emotional response to emerge from being in my new surroundings, finding the things I’ve always been drawn to, no matter where I am. The light, the relationships, patterns, textures. The mood and atmosphere. The histories.
Eventually, I found reasons to press the shutter, inconsequential as it felt at the time. Never mind that the results didn’t promise to be knock-your-socks-off inspiring. Just press the shutter! Just do it! I would come home to the computer and open the images, trying to recall why I had chosen to press the shutter. All I needed was one reason, one image, one smile of satisfaction, and I was encouraged enough to go out again. In doing so, my senses are becoming sharper, my observations more acute, and the resulting images more interesting to me. A huge sigh of relief. Okay, I get this. This is the old familiar process. Just trust it.
Judy
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