‘Do you remember this?’ My dad asked me, as we stood in my driveway, gathered around his open car boot.
He pulled a piece of card from a book and handed it to me. It was one of those pieces of card that they put in stocking packets, upon which was drawn a castle, set among trees, beneath a rainbow. The scene was faded, though possibly not as much as one would have expected, after twenty years.
‘Who did that?’ One of my girls asked, reaching for it. ‘Your mother did, when she was ten,’ my dad said smiling, ‘and I still have it now.’
I didn’t remember creating the drawing, though I did remember the days when I drew castles, almost obsessively, trying to place each line right so that it would look like it really was made of stone blocks. I loved to draw, to write, on any available canvas.
Other things happened, that tenth year of my childhood. Things that changed all of us forever, that quietened my creative voice and dulled the senses of those who had once listened to it. Like that tree that crashes in the forest without anyone around to hear it, there was only silence.
As I grew, occasionally I could hear the voice stir within me, but it was always quickly drowned out by life’s cacophony. The serious act of growing up, becoming more than I was. The loving, the wedding, the birthing, growing and educating of those four precious girls. Be quiet voice, I have no time, no money, no energy, just leave me alone.
I fooled myself into thinking I’d rather listen to the creative voices of others, than speak my own. I was no stranger to the power of a photographic image. The ability a single picture has to touch the souls of those who view it, without regard for age or race, education or orientation. I’d experienced first-hand the effect of certain pictures, as they embraced, lifted into the air, twirled and spun me, before dropping me back to earth with a thud that left me breathless and altered. Yes, I knew only too well.
Then one day, someone asked me about my camera. It was a capable point and shoot, which I had affectionately named, Mr Fuji. I told them, and they replied that they would have to go out and buy one, because my pictures were amazing. Amazing? My pictures? These pictures? What crazy talk was this?
But my voice had been awakened, and within months I was the proud and excited owner of my very first DSLR camera. My creative voice was speaking, and people were listening. I was connecting with people all over the world through my images, my art. Every time someone emailed me to tell me how one of my pics had brought them to tears, or touched something deep within them, my voice grew stronger, louder.
These days, I’m still finding my voice. At times it cracks and becomes barely a whisper, or disappears altogether for a while. But I don’t fear losing it again, because nurturing it, setting it free, was the greatest gift I have ever given myself, and I know now, that silence isn’t always golden.
Photograph and words courtesy of Honorary Shutter Sister/Guest Blogger Just Hay who can also be found Flickring or Photoblogging at Hay’s Fauxtography.
