That Lonesome Valley

During last week's blizzard, fellow photographer/daughter and I ventured out for a walk, cell phone cameras in hand (foregoing the risk of taking the good gear out into the teeth of the booming snow gale), hoping to document the storm. We didn't get too far down Main Street due to the conditions being quite frankly treacherous and unsafe, but here's a photo that she managed to glean -  and post on her own blog, plus it made the local newspaper; a photo not unlike photos I've taken in the past, or even one I took that day of her from the opposite direction. I love this photo. I love the stark beauty: the snow cloud that envelopes the figure; the way the scarf wrapped around the subject's neck makes the hood of her coat look like a Russian hat, lending an overall old world quality to the image; the way the bottom of the long coat is swirling in the wind; the way she has framed the figure between the two poles and the overhead wires. I love the way the subtle dark path behind the subject (who, oh yeah, happens to be me), suggests the passage of time and distance traveled.

(Photo courtesy of Maria Writing with Light)

Once the initial artistic appreciation for the photo had faded, however, I saw a sadness in the photo. I became aware that I was actually seeing a photograph of my own journey - literally and figuratively, in this case (and how many photos have I taken of roads, pathways, walkways? this blog is even named Food for the Journey). I saw in this photo a small and fragile woman. I saw a reflection of the way I've been feeling lately: an increasing awareness - as I watch the years of my life fading in the rear view mirror - of my own irrelevance. I saw myself walking towards the great abyss, towards the grave. I saw my own mortality.

This is a perfect photo for Ash Wednesday, on so many levels (not the least being that I am directly in front of St. Elizabeth's, my church home from which I am presently separated, sadly; my penance, I suppose we could call it).

Ash Wednesday is the first day of our symbolic forty-day journey into the desert; a colorless world devoid of extraneous pleasure and joy; a mini-death as we align ourselves with Jesus' journey towards the cross. As I set off on this year's Lenten journey, let me embrace this desert place, this lonesome valley, this encounter with death, and let me remember that this leg of the journey is temporary and there is nothing to fear and everything to gain. Let me remember that the photo above is not the whole story. Just as Jesus' forty days in the desert culminated with Easter, so will mine.