Four years ago, this coming January, I sat in my dermatologist's office thinking I was having an allergic reaction to a medicine she put me on. I had broken out in a rash that looked a little like a sunburn and a lot like something I had never seen before. The doctor looked at me, asked if the rash itched and when I told her "no," she began to look very concerned.
"You're not having an allergic reaction," she told me. "In fact, you look sick."
In fact, in the brief amount of time I had been sitting in her office, my condition had deteriorated so rapidly that she and her staff were considering calling 911. They settled for getting me an appointment with my primary care. I had a fever and chills. I looked like someone who was very sick and yet I had already been on antibiotics for ten days.
These symptoms would turn out to be part of a cluster of symptoms associated with my autoimmune disorder, though it would take years before we discovered that.
But what amazes me about that day was that when I thought back on the five days prior to going to the dermatologist, I realized that I had been having fevers daily, that I had been aching like I had the flu and time and time again, I brushed off the symptoms, ignored the warnings and continued on with my day even as I grew sicker and sicker.
Today when I drove to church both to take my daily picture and for the service, I thought about this project, this 365 Days of Hope and I wondered to God, how I would possibly find 365 interesting and different things to take pictures of. Hadn't I already taken a picture of seemingly every flower on the property? And how interesting were trees, exactly?
What else was there? I questioned God.
So before the service, I wandered around outside, taking blind shots into the trees, hoping to catch a bird or something and weaved my way around spider webs and found myself again at the Memorial Garden. The hibiscus was drooping today but the sun was only just rising.
And then I saw it.
Sitting on the fence post was a dragonfly. I expected it to take off at any second. It was unmoving, so unmoving that I wondered if it was even living or if it had died or molted or done some other crazy insect thing and left its shell behind.
I took a picture and then took a step forward, again expecting the dragonfly to flutter away.
Snap, snap, snap. I took picture after picture after picture and finally I lowered the camera and said out loud, "Okay, I'm done."
And at those words, the dragonfly flew away.
It was as if the buzz around the woods the past month has been about the woman who comes by every morning and takes pictures and the dragonfly said, "Hey, I'd like my picture taken. Where is she usually?"
Sometimes I wonder if the whole point of this project is to get me to pay attention, to really pay attention, to look past the obvious and concentrate on the things that are hidden, sometimes in plain sight, sometimes behind leaves or in the water, or behind a rock.
We have to pay attention not just so we can survive physically, but so that our emotional and spiritual selves are nourished as well. We have to see more than what's right in front of us. We have to know when something has changed because it might be something little, but it also might be a harbinger of things to come, both good and bad.
Because the world will not wait for us as that dragonfly waited for me this morning.
The world will spin and if we're not careful, we'll miss the ride.
"You're not having an allergic reaction," she told me. "In fact, you look sick."
In fact, in the brief amount of time I had been sitting in her office, my condition had deteriorated so rapidly that she and her staff were considering calling 911. They settled for getting me an appointment with my primary care. I had a fever and chills. I looked like someone who was very sick and yet I had already been on antibiotics for ten days.
These symptoms would turn out to be part of a cluster of symptoms associated with my autoimmune disorder, though it would take years before we discovered that.
But what amazes me about that day was that when I thought back on the five days prior to going to the dermatologist, I realized that I had been having fevers daily, that I had been aching like I had the flu and time and time again, I brushed off the symptoms, ignored the warnings and continued on with my day even as I grew sicker and sicker.
Today when I drove to church both to take my daily picture and for the service, I thought about this project, this 365 Days of Hope and I wondered to God, how I would possibly find 365 interesting and different things to take pictures of. Hadn't I already taken a picture of seemingly every flower on the property? And how interesting were trees, exactly?
What else was there? I questioned God.
So before the service, I wandered around outside, taking blind shots into the trees, hoping to catch a bird or something and weaved my way around spider webs and found myself again at the Memorial Garden. The hibiscus was drooping today but the sun was only just rising.
And then I saw it.
Sitting on the fence post was a dragonfly. I expected it to take off at any second. It was unmoving, so unmoving that I wondered if it was even living or if it had died or molted or done some other crazy insect thing and left its shell behind.
I took a picture and then took a step forward, again expecting the dragonfly to flutter away.
Snap, snap, snap. I took picture after picture after picture and finally I lowered the camera and said out loud, "Okay, I'm done."
And at those words, the dragonfly flew away.
It was as if the buzz around the woods the past month has been about the woman who comes by every morning and takes pictures and the dragonfly said, "Hey, I'd like my picture taken. Where is she usually?"
Sometimes I wonder if the whole point of this project is to get me to pay attention, to really pay attention, to look past the obvious and concentrate on the things that are hidden, sometimes in plain sight, sometimes behind leaves or in the water, or behind a rock.
We have to pay attention not just so we can survive physically, but so that our emotional and spiritual selves are nourished as well. We have to see more than what's right in front of us. We have to know when something has changed because it might be something little, but it also might be a harbinger of things to come, both good and bad.
Because the world will not wait for us as that dragonfly waited for me this morning.
The world will spin and if we're not careful, we'll miss the ride.
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