Saturday Mornings on Rosedale

The camera bears witness to the light and shadows that follow the five of us each day. It grants me permission to mourn the passage of time—raising children is so fleeting. I am loving and hating this very season. Loving and hating this very Saturday morning. Loving and hating this voyage of motherhood. This is the paradox: I wish the banal away, yet I am preserving it, storing it up to revisit later. While I am detached in the present moment, I am still one with the camera. I pause, and observe who my children are and wonder what gifts they will carry with them into the world. Although I have carefully placed them into the frame, they have freedom to be who they are called to be. These walls, covered in crayon, show written testimony of their existence. I order and record their eccentric gestures, frenetic energies, and childhood wonderment. I am making a book of years in monochrome. This is my love letter to our children, the ones that are here and the ones who have been lost.