Taking Photos of Strangers

Hey, how are you? And, how are you handling the onslaught of nightmarish terror every day?

Do you disassociate and read fantasy novels? Turn off the news and watch The Office for the 12th time? Go for walkies with your bestie? Drink your sorrows and unhealed trauma straight from the whiskey bottle? Paint your emotions onto the canvas? Write your rage in your notes app? Sit in existential dread until you decide to watch The Muppets Christmas Carol for the third time this month even though it isn’t Christmas yet?

A rager my brother and I threw while our parents were on vacation that one time...

Since I’ve been on medical leave for nearly a year (on and off, I’m okay I promise.) and I am exploring more things about myself, I have been walking up to strangers, gently and with soft, sweet eyes, starting a conversation with them and/or asking if I can take a candid photo.

Mike thinks I am courageous and extremely talented in knowing how to make conversation with anyone, moving past small talk quickly and engaging in a way that reels even the most guarded people in, even though I am not particularly loquacious or extroverted. 

I'm just curious.

I can listen to people talk about themselves without interjecting, interrupting or waiting for them to finish so that I can one-up their stories. I am not perfect in this, I do mess up.  I can quiet my mind and focus on just them, with practice.

What makes them tick, why they think we are here on earth, what's our purpose and moreover, what is their story?

You can learn a lot about people while observing them talk. I watch their face carefully, the way their lips move, how their eyelids crinkle, the way their nose twitches, how they hold their bodies and what they do with their limbs. I’m not ever judging or harshly critiquing, I want to know who they are, or who they perceive themselves to be, and that really hits a spot. They can tell. When people feel comfortable in your presence, they usually spill their guts, reveal their soul and tell you all the little secrets. And they are always safe with me. I have a sign on my forehead that says, "tell me everything."

But I also have hearing loss, so I have to face people and ask them to face me, to speak louder and sometimes I have to get close, so as you can imagine with these sparkling emerald-green/hazel eyes and my good posture— I can come off as intense and intimidating.

I reassure them that I don’t hear well, I smile sweetly and I watch how their body relaxes as their compassion and understanding sets in. We instinctively care for each other, and most people will accommodate.

"The Admiral" My camera settings weren't right for the indoor conditions so I took my best shot.

His name is Arnold Jaglito D. Wanderer Atpay. AKA "The Admiral." I had asked him what his preferred name is and how I should refer to him. He smiled at that, "The Admiral is fine," he said. We discussed John Lennon, Henry Miller and writing our own novels. His was in the metaphysical realm, I told him mine was more down to earth. He talked about producing a documentary and how glad he was to have enjoyed his life.

After chatting with The Admiral for a little while at a bookstore in downtown Santa Barbara, he looked at me and said, “you know what you are?” I joked around with him, “a lady, at best?” He shook his head, relaxed his countenance and in complete seriousness said, “you are an old soul.”

He saw right to the heart of me. Dewy-eyed, I took a small breath in, smiled genially at him then replied, “If I had $5 every time someone has told me I was an old soul, I’d be a millionaire.” He smiled with a twinkle in his eye and told me, “I can always tell.”

Stop and talk to people, please. You never know who you will meet. He was fascinating to listen to. I wasn’t sure if he was resting in this particular spot, or if he was observing like I was. I let him know what a pleasure it was speaking with him, and we parted ways.

Taking photos of strangers:

From The Depths

Since I’ve been on this wacky adventure of swimming out of the depths of the Mariana Trench of depression and into the wading waters of the Pacific, finding a rowboat big enough to house my PTSD, anxieties and panic attacks, rowing with the strength of someone who didn’t want to exist anymore and finally making it ashore to find no one there to hold me in my understanding of what it meant to make it out alive… I had to figure out… why I am still here? What is the point in continuing to live?

Love.

C'mon. You knew I was going to say it. If I haven’t said enough in my previous blog posts, or in my lifetime, I will say it over and over until my throat is ripped apart and my voice is hoarse from repeating the sentiment.

Love is what saved me. It’s what saves every protagonist in stories, it rescues every main character in movies, it keeps the singer singing, the guitar player plucking, the poet dreaming, the writer ruminating, the artist drawing, the woodworker carving, the winemaker pouring, the gardener tending, the photographer searching. It’s why we’re here.

To love life, to love each other.

What’s your favorite love language to share with others?

If I had to pick one, and there’s many, it’s probably hosting friends and family at our home, and cooking/baking for them. These three recent meals were photo worthy because they were all made from scratch and because of the pure and honest reaction from my husband, moaning "mmm, baby this is so good" with his eyes closed, smirking while chewing.

It is the way to a man's heart, old wives' tale or not.

Red wine chili, gluten-free cornbread, tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwich asiago, gruyere, and fontina to be exact, and my favorite winter comfort meal: yellow Thai curry.

LEVEL SEVEN UNLOCKED

I asked my husband at what level do I show my love and kindness to people, 0-10 scale.

At first, he said six.

I asked him what nine to ten was, because we can easily guess what zero to two is.

“Ten is psychotic. Obsessed, stalking.”

I replied, “so, six is healthy then? Maybe with a dash of excitement?”

He agreed. Then I asked him if that’s how he felt that I showed love for him, he agreed and said that he liked it, it’s how he would want to be loved.

He then asked me about him, and I told him he’s at level three with others, a level five with me and that I was fine with that because I wouldn’t want him to be any other way. He agreed with my assessment as well.

He is stoic, intelligent, reserved and quiet. I’m the weird one. He’s the soft protector of my dreams, the guardian of my wild heart. It takes a strong and confident man to be with me, let alone be friends with me. Our performance doesn’t need to be matched if it’s authentic.

The next day he came back with a new number. This time it was seven.

I asked him what made him change his mind. He said, “you have so much love to give. And you are the same with everyone, even strangers. You show everyone the same level of love and kindness, no matter who they are. I admire you for that.”

Queue the tears.

He sees me. He pays attention, he understands. He doesn’t run from my slightly overwhelming ability to love, he stays, smiling in adoration, knowing I won’t force him to match my muchness.

I grew up in a home where I wasn’t hugged, I had to ask to be hugged and it never felt genuine. Where love was performative, not unconditional.

When I was brave enough to show myself, I wasn’t accepted and was teased for having different views and opinions.

Severe emotional, physical and psychological abuse growing up in a volatile home showed me that love wasn’t real and I wasn't deserving of it. Obedience, family first and respect without earning it was required. The cruelty I was shown should have destroyed me, should have made me bitter, ignorant, judgmental, ugly hearted and cold, just like them.

Joke’s on you motherfuckers.

I’ve been asked how I made it out alive, how I’m not on drugs, an alcoholic, on a street corner or dead in a ditch, when those who have had the patience to listen to my life story. Some have openly wept, some were outraged, with some of my family members on their shit list.

I’ve had some people not believe me, saying I was just trauma dumping or that I was making it up for attention. It used to bother me until I realized it wasn’t about me, the reaction was about them.

Some have said, “how can you be this sweet?” And, “no one is that nice.”

Well, I’m here to burst your trauma bubble babe, take a deep breath then hop on this crazy train for a *good time.

*No sexy stuff, just level seven intense platonic fondness and affection. Can you dig it?

I found this in an old journal, probably when I was nineteen or twenty years old. I recognized that I hadn't written in a while due to a deep depression, and this is what I had to say about how I felt at the time.

Most people don’t know what to do with love, even if it smacked them in the face.

I was lost in a version of myself for many years, pouring love and energy into every crevice of people to see if it made them whole enough to love me back. The cracks were bottomless caverns.

When I finally left, I was in the dark of midnight, alone with my regrets of loving those who didn’t love me back. I kept walking in that darkness, my arms and fingers outstretched, and found that the light back to myself was letting go of all that I thought I needed to be and embracing all that I am. That’s when I really started loving myself. It’s bright now, bright and safe enough to let love back in, but with healthy boundaries.

I want people to feel loved around me, because I know what the polar opposite is like. It is a haunting place, one that my body never forgets, a place that my subconscious mind begs me to return to, because even if it is scary, it is recognizable. “People are not safe, they are untrustworthy, they will hurt you.”

The lies I was told. The anger I have quelled. The fear I have released… they will never know this freedom or elation.

I truly believe many people do not know what love actually is or how to handle it. The safety zone of pretending “all people suck and I am not lovable,” doesn't work.

Or they fear rejection so they don't even try. Or, once they have it, they don't know what to do with it. Frightened by the possibilities or the hurt that could come from it, they run.

Imagine Forrest Gump running out of his momma's house and then just kept going. Yea, those people. Keep running, and far away from me. Don't come back until you've healed and are ready to hold it.

We all want to be deeply loved. It is a biological need, the sense of belonging and community. This era of hyper individualism has destroyed what we all yearn for.

This shows up in men especially. But they are not allowed to express themselves, society says it is weak if you show emotion. You’re a simp. Soy boy beta cucks. A pussy.

There are more men showing us that this is false. They are capable of listening with intention, going to therapy, confidently expressing their emotions, hugging their teenage sons, letting their children be who they are without belittling them. Dads are painting their fingernails with their kids, changing diapers and wearing their babies in a wrap on their chest, showing their silly side without shame. Loving their friends fiercely without holding back in fear of being exposed as lustful or unfaithful to their spouses.

It is enduring and heartwarming to witness. I smile and gently praise those men if I get the chance.

I encourage you to encourage the people in your life to find little ways to love themselves, then show love to each other. Start small, where you feel safe, but explore those boundaries. Listen and watch how they react, then get curious, ask why? If they get defensive, calmly reassure them. Tell them you are listening and just trying to understand them and that you are not mad. It works most of the time. If it doesn’t, time to move along.

I have a deep-seated fear of being misunderstood. I know where it comes from, I'm constantly working on it. What makes me sad about it is that people are not curious to find out, they just want the version of you that they created in their mind so that they don’t have to do the work to find out that they may have been wrong about us all along and they are actually judgmental jerks that lack the ability to release their ego.

So, for the sake of humanity and our future, practice love and “be curious, not judgmental.” -Possibly Walt Whitman, or the writers of Ted Lasso.

If you enjoy a love story that is classically enduring, realistic and down to earth, then you might like to read about the love that is explored and shown between my two main characters Soshana and Kieran in my debut novel "When She Breaks." You may want to grab a tissue or two. Maybe some chocolate and a glass of red wine.

Click the gray button below and begin your search for infinite love:

Love Story Reveal