Every living and growing thing is a work in progress, as are most inanimate and many unseeable things. Tulip bulbs and time-smoothed rocks. Reflections, both visible and internal. A trip by land or sea or sky. Quilts , from the sketching to the sewing process. Sunrise. Anger. Taste in art and novels. Betrayal and trust, both in the building and in the breach.
Landscapes and visitors to them. Altitude and attitude.
Hope and regret and resignation.
Memories. Love.
Lunch.
Even when something’s done and dusted–including long after I’ve pressed “publish”–everything I write remains a work in progress. When I revisit an old post, or a brief I filed decades ago, I often wince at something that could have been better said.
Each post I’ve made in the past many months has required a scandalous number of revisions–not because of a change in the way I write, but because of changes in me. (Although I suspect that is a chicken-and-egg construct for most people who write).
The writer I am in the moment is never the writer I was in the past. Sometimes, for better and worse, I hardly recognize prose as mine. I’m occasionally pleasantly surprised. (More often, I think, “How could I have missed that mistake when I read my draft aloud . . . four times?”)
Every living and growing thing is a work in progress, as are most inanimate and many unseeable things. Tulip bulbs and time-smoothed rocks. Reflections, both visible and internal. A trip by land or sea or sky. Quilts , from the sketching to the sewing process. Sunrise. Anger. Taste in art and novels. Betrayal and trust, both in the building and in the breach.
The quilts I’ve sewn since I was ten are, by their nature, works in often reductive progress. The better loved a baby quilt, the more it tends to emerge from its recipient’s childhood in a very different and diminished physical state (not unlike its seamstress). It begins and ends in pieces.
The process of handmaking a quilt, followed by a child’s enthusiastic use of it, is like a Riddle of the Sphinx writ in 100% cotton prints. The binding at the quilt’s edges–always the final touch when making it–is almost always the first to go. Its tightly woven threads are worn away by tiny hands grasping it for comfort. Entire brightly-colored applique shapes sometimes follow suit, fading and letting go like petals once they have been loved back to exhausted pieces. The hand-stitched threads that secured them can only take so much love and laundering.
This goes for my photographs, too, in a way. I now take photos in somewhat less absurd quantities than I acquire fabric. My early landscape and seascape photos were . . . not good. I tended to emulate my longtime Deering camp friends’ band motto–“Quality through volume.” But along the way, I grew from sheer practice to be able to frame shots. To catch the ephemeral when it was willing to be caught. To wait patiently, no matter what was buzzing and slithering and stinging nearby . To appreciate what was temporarily in my sight, and that a rushed shot would not enhance my chances of preserving something special.
This morning was summer-steamed, shrouded in deep gray mist. But I thought I spotted a visitor to a darkened house just off a very busy main road. From a distance, I quietly zoomed in and took a single photo.
I may still have work to do, but the fawn posed perfectly before loping away.
I couldn’t have improved on it.
Love in the Spaces 
Work in progress, for me, is more like urban renewal, or like the Atmosphere Processing Plants from the Alien movies. Like I’m only just starting and have much to do. The older I get the more I think about why I do this at all: take pictures and write. I think I have decided it’s because there are undiscovered countries inside of me that I want to explore. Whether or not someone can make sense of my logbook (some past entries are abysmal) is okay with me. I must explore and make my best attempt to dust away the dirt and rocks until the bones I think I am looking for emerge. To quote Indiana Jones: “I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.” Thanks for your post and images.
Thank you! I clearly need to watch the Alien movies. In the past several years I began thinking almoist the opposite: I had my work niche, which I loved and tended to consume most of my waking hours, but felt like I was running out of time to do other things, like non-work writing and art and forays out into the greater world and far outside my confort zone.
Running out of time is definitely a thing these days. Photography and writing are two creative endeavors I do just because I want to and it brings me joy. Since time is running out, I’m trying to focus on those aspects of living.
A lovely contemplative post Stephanie – loved the “done and dusted” phrase which I’d not heard before. Life is indeed a work in process and I’m happy to see I’m not the only one who has so many revisions before posting 😊.
Thank you, Tina! I’m afraid to even look at my tally of revisions….probably close to 30 this time!
How true to think we change with our writing too. And find mistakes after reading a post out loud 4 times. 🙋🏼♀️ love the way you intertwined photos into your lists of what can be a work in progress. The photos bring strength to you words.
Thank you! I love the photo prompts because they’re always writing prompts, too (at least in the peculiar chicken-and-egg of my writing process)…and this time, even after four read-alouds, there was still at least one typo!
lol. I think I am in your neck of the woods these days. The new England coast. Love it here.
Love all the photos. But it really piqued my interests with the portrait compositions. I can only imagine how you’ve deliberately thought of what to include and not to include in the photo. Also, it resonated to me about taking photos in lesser quantity. Thank you for sharing this Stephanie.
Thank you, Dan! I am taking lessons from your photos and you are very talented. I learn so much from the way other bloggers share what they see.
We’re thinking similar thoughts. I just wrote about sometimes needing to break from writing to allow the changes–the living–that’s occurring without my inner observer weighing everything. I love the tree stump photo–you managed to make it so beautiful!
I could do much better at overriding my inner observer/critiquer! I was never one for appreciating the moment as it should be savored.
I was struck by the way the white patch on the tree stump looked like a glowing nautilus, as if light were striking it, though it was not. I am getting much better at looking for light!