Today I escaped from anxiety. Or no, I discarded it, because it was within me, in my own perceptions – not outside. ~Marcus Aurelius
For some years now I made it a tradition of sorts to commemorate my birthdays in remote places, by myself; to reflect on the year and the life that passed, in magnificent wild settings; and to consider the road ahead. This may seem an odd thing to do for one who generally places little value on traditions of any sort, and who rarely assigns great significance to dates or anniversaries. The reason I do it is to introduce intersections into my life’s path at regular intervals – points from which I have to consider my course and how well it meets with my goals and desires, and what corrections it might need.
Do not look for my birth date in public forums, I choose to not advertise it. Not that it is any great secret, but I prefer to avoid the congratulations. To me these are private and intimate rituals, and not public affairs. Those close to me know when it is, and that I am likely to be unavailable then. My age is also of no great significance; I subscribe to Seneca’s admonition, “you must not think a man has lived long because he has white hair and wrinkles: he has not lived long, just existed long.” My goal is to live long within whatever period is given to me, rather than to just count off the years.
Other than the inevitable existential questions that take up most of my attention in such times, I also considered my choice of becoming a photographer, the kind of photography I practice and write about, and the fact that I make far fewer images today, in a given period of time, than I have in the past. What prompted the thought was a moment of fascination with a beautiful butterfly sunning itself on a rock, and that seemed oblivious to my presence. I watched it for several minutes, at a close distance, without ever experiencing the urge to reach for my camera. This was not always the case. In fact, I remember days when such an opportunity would give me great joy and compel me to make numerous exposures, then fill me with anticipation of seeing the images later, on film or on a screen. None of these seem to happen, anymore.
Over the years I have become very picky and less excited about using my camera. On the other hand, those images that do excite me today, despite being less frequent, reward me with a much greater sense gratitude, pride and contentment. Two questions came to my mind: is this transition normal and expected, or is there something “wrong” with me? And, am I better or worse off than I was in my early photographic days; i.e., did I gain more in depth than I lost in breadth?
How does one answer such questions objectively? Better yet, should such questions be answered objectively? My former pursuit of anything photogenic was indeed very enjoyable, but also practiced with different goals from those I have today. My older photographs were more reactive, rather than creative; prompted more by fascination with the subject, rather than introspection; and were often commemorative of short-lived respites from a less inspired life, rather than expressive of a life that I love and marvel at and take pride in almost every single day. And so, the subjective answer is far more obvious: I undoubtedly gained far more than I lost. The fascination with places and life is still very much there, but is now disengaged to a degree from photography, which today rewards in different ways than it once used to.
The distinction between my photography of the past and my photography today, I concluded, is that in the past I used to pursue and explore the essences of things outside of me, whereas today I try to distill the essence of my own self. It is to a large degree still inspired and enriched by such external things, but is more concerned with my response to them rather than just my fascination with them.
It occurred to me also that in the past I used to cherish such outings as they afforded me temporary freedom from other things, whereas today those things that were once the norm are temporary intrusions into my freedom to roam and to experience. Albeit at some risk, I learned that one doesn’t become free when he learns that he can, or the ways by which he can; one becomes free only when he actually frees himself. The risks, the fears and the sacrifices are not hurdles to freedom, they are essential to accomplishing it.
Another birthday, another year, another night on a mountain wrapped in the serenity that only a mountain can inspire. Another day on Earth, another day of life, another day not wasted.
