Death, dying, and aliveness

A few years ago, I took photography lessons from a photographer/journalist who was dying of cancer. I was drawn to his work through a post on Eventbrite, captivated by two images he posted to give an idea of the photographic eye you could develop if you took his class. 

One image depicted an elderly lady standing in the middle of a dirt road in Vietnam. You could look into her eyes and feel who she was and the journey she’d traveled without an introduction. 

I longed to take pictures like that. 

Another image was of a log covered in rough bark, surrounded by a joyous explosion of colorful wildflowers. It felt as if I was sitting on the log, meditating amongst the flowers.

The juxtaposition was powerful: my teacher was dying, but his art was pulsing with aliveness.

On the first day of class, I met his wife, who led me to the studio attached to the back of their house. She moved with a quiet stillness, her silence speaking volumes about her husband's condition. Walking through their home was like stepping into a gallery of his life, with photographs from around the world covering the pale grey walls.

His studio was also a continuation of his photography he was proud to display.  I was invited to sit on a soft, welcoming couch that seemed to beg you to relax and unwind. I placed my bag on the floor and sank into the cushions, releasing a long, tired sigh.

Feeling a bit self-conscious about my loud sigh, I couldn't help but appreciate the moment of release the couch provided. As I was settling into this newfound comfort, I was startled when he announced he was stepping out for a quick smoke, leaving me alone to absorb the surroundings.

I sat there, motionless, taking it all in. Death's presence was palpable, yet my instructor's lack of concern about my potential judgment of his smoking was oddly refreshing.

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