A Great Blue Heron strides out of the darkness, a pollywog (tagpole) clutched mercilessly in its beak! Poor little thing had just given rise to a set of hind legs and will never live to sing the bullfrog chorus. Processed in photoshop camera raw, then applied a texture in color burn blend mode before selectively burning out much of the background color.© 2012 Miles A Moody All Rights Reserved. Kindly refrain from duplicating this photographic and written work in any form without my written permission.
Death From Above
By Miles A Moody
An itty-bitty tadpole in a very big pond – sometimes I still feel this way, like I’m a misfit, like I’m an imposter struggling to keep one step ahead of exposure and being found out for who I really am. I’ve done exceptionally well in this life pretending to be like everyone else is pretending to be – so well in fact that for close to a handful of decades I even fooled myself. What do you say about a puzzle where none of the pieces truly fit? We’re a planet full of round pegs trying to fit into square holes and no one much thinks it’s peculiar. Oh, but we do have a lot to say about the peculiarity of those who dare say how strange we’re all choosing to be. And that is odd, indeed.
“What’s strange about us,” you may be wondering. Well, let’s take the activity of love for instance. We believe we are loved when someone needs us and can’t live without us, but what are we truly settling for here? I need my car to take me to work to earn the money I need to pay all my bills for all the other stuff I think I need to survive. Is that all that love has to offer?
What option is left to me when the hole in me is too large to fill? When the thing that might fill it up is worse than the hole? Broken beyond repair is what I’m left with. And so I fill my life up with distraction so I won’t have to go where I can’t bear to go. I never face the beliefs too terrible to face to find out for myself if there is any truth to them. Maybe I tried and failed to face them in a time in life when I lacked the experience, the will or the wisdom to deal with them effectively. I’m like the heavy-weight boxer still being towed around by the ear – frightened to death of that 90 pound momma – still looking up at formidable authority through my four-year old eyes.
When I believe I have no recourse left to me, then deny that I believe this to try to escape the hopelessness I must feel, then I’m apt to jump on any bandwagon that happens along believing whatever they tell me and singing their song. Charisma and conviction pass for truth; the harder they believe it, the more I can seem to want to. I’ve found that the truth is like a carefully laid plan; take anything away from it and you won’t get from it what you might have; you won’t even come close.
I’ve looked around quite a bit now searching for truth and I think I may be on to something: It seems to me that the folks the closest to living in truth are the ones least self-righteous about the subject of truth. They tell me that the truth isn’t something you can write down in a book; you can try to describe it but you’ll only be pointing in its direction, because it’s something to be experienced, to be allowed, to be known. The second you try to pin it down into a belief, you’ve lost it; it’s slipped away your attempts to hold on to it. The truth lives in the heart, they tell me, not the head. Step out of your thoughts, the stuff of belief, and enter into the open door of your heart. That’s where you’ll find it, right where it always has been patiently waiting your return home.
I know I’ve done life most all of the ways that don’t work. I figure I’ll try on what they’re living. Then I’ll know for sure for myself.
Nikon D90, 600 mm (Nikkor IF 600 4.0ED), 1/400 sec, ISO 800, Gitzo Tripod, Wemberley Head, cable release, Concord, NC, USA