“This is dedicated to the one I love.” --The Mamas and the Papas
Have I mentioned how much I really enjoy Marilyn Elliott? In the eras of the Victorians and the Romantics, it was not unusual to find love letters between mutual friends, students and teachers, and those who simply had mentors they admired. This had nothing to do with a romantic love as the limited view of love letters today would have it, but were words of appreciation and admiration in a time that was not so fearful to share them. And so, while I don’t know that I would call this a love letter, today I have decided to dedicate this post to Marilyn, Asbury’s rock of a chaplain, and my fantastically whimsical friend.
If I were to write this in letter form, I might start like this:
Have I mentioned how much I really enjoy Marilyn Elliott? In the eras of the Victorians and the Romantics, it was not unusual to find love letters between mutual friends, students and teachers, and those who simply had mentors they admired. This had nothing to do with a romantic love as the limited view of love letters today would have it, but were words of appreciation and admiration in a time that was not so fearful to share them. And so, while I don’t know that I would call this a love letter, today I have decided to dedicate this post to Marilyn, Asbury’s rock of a chaplain, and my fantastically whimsical friend.
If I were to write this in letter form, I might start like this:
Dear Marilyn,
You are fabulously wonderful, even if you do drive me crazy!
If I could put the essence of my relationship with Marilyn into one precise sentence, that’s the closest I could come. The things I dislike about Marilyn are the things I absolutely love. I love how spontaneous she can be, how she keeps me on my toes. And I hate that she won’t nail down times with me. I love her honesty, her lack of desire to say anything but the truth. And I hate when she says things to me I don’t want to hear. I love that Marilyn doesn’t censor herself around me, that she laughs with me, that she plays with me and teases me.
Marilyn is not like any other woman I’ve met. She is never bothered by my intensity and does not try to entertain me when she is not in the mood or does not have the time. She does not fake how she feels, and I have learned that I never have to worry about what she may be thinking about me, because she’ll simply say it. I love that she doesn’t put up walls with me, and I love that I don’t have to second guess Marilyn and that I have her word on that.
With a twenty-six year age gap, our relationship is, to say the least, a unique one. It is so interesting to me, that sometimes I wish I could frame it and put it on my shelf, because it would add an interesting element to my collection of pictures and trinkets. Marilyn is largely uninterested in the age gap, but being less than two months older than her youngest child, my relationship with her sometimes looks more like an awkward parent-child partnership than a friend to friend kinship or even a pastor-student bond. The weirdest part is that sometimes it looks like all three at once.
Marilyn is one of the very, very few who understand me not just as someone of a postmodern point of view, but as a Portlander who has been uprooted and transplanted into a place entirely foreign to her culture. As a Canadian, especially one with the same bent toward postmodernism that I have, she seems to understand this with an empathy others can’t grasp. I love that I can vent about my thoughts on Southern culture, the Church, and Asbury and have no worries that she’ll be offended or even bothered, and to know that, in fact, I just might have an empathetic ear.
My first experience with Marilyn was not a personal one. Due to a minor back injury from my nasty car accident that officially welcomed me to Kentucky, I was in and out of New Student Orientation, unable to cope with both the discomfort of sitting for too long and the discomfort of being in a sea of people I’ve never met. But I did happen to be in NSO when Marilyn spoke. I don’t really remember what it was she talked about, but she caught my attention when she quoted the Brandi Carlile’s song “The Story.” It is a certain type of person that has an interest in Brandi Carlile and acquaintances back home are a number of those. Brandi Carlile is a Seattle-based musician who has a bigger following on the West Coast than over here, so to hear her mentioned piqued my interest, and I seemed to stow away in the back of my mind that whether or not Marilyn was a person I should get to know, she was at least worth noting as relevant. She made me curious, but it was many weeks before we would officially connect.
Since then, it’s been a crazy ride, one that has consisted of office visits, random chats, witty bantering, lots of cupcakes, banana bread, church visits (including Easter), grocery shopping, lunch out, her front porch, one retreat, tears, laying in the grass, a trip to the public library, the asking of me (or any other female near enough to hear the question) to be the contributing factor in the giving of grandchildren from her last born who, as she so articulately noted, is the only one of her children left with the biological capability to do so, and the exchanging of books and movies.
I have known Marilyn for less than a year, and it’s been a year to remember, though one I sometimes think I’d rather forget. I don’t know if I could have survived Asbury without Marilyn. Like a little beacon of sanity, Marilyn was always there to remind me that there was a world outside Asbury and that the world outside Asbury would not see me the same way the world inside Asbury does.
I love that Marilyn will not give undue sympathy, even if I do want it, and won’t bullshit around. I love that with no warning, she’ll come out and whisk me away from my grueling work to take a quick trip to Goodwill or go sit in the sun for a few minutes or lay in the grass. I love that Marilyn does not want to be a mother to me and that I don’t want her to treat me as if she’s my mother, but that at times we default to that anyway and in the end I just go with the flow of whatever she wants, because it has everything to do with spending time with her and nothing to do with how that’s done.
These days, Marilyn and I are designing a garden (hence the public library trip)—a prayer garden outside one of Asbury’s many chapels. If there’s a timeline for this, Marilyn has not notified me of it, and I don’t find this to be a surprise. Whether or not it even gets finished by the end of the summer is up for grabs, I’m sure. But the finishing end is not much of a factor for my choice to be involved. I’m simply entertained with the opportunity this will bring for more amusing stories and fantastic interactions, and the opportunities that have already arisen.
Marilyn does not fit the Asbury mold. She doesn’t even fit the opposite of the Asbury mold. She is simply her own entity, and this is one of the reasons I so enjoy her. I could write a lot more about her. I could tell amusing stories and relay comical conversations. For now, though, I will end by saying I love that Marilyn has redefined relationships for me in a way that is very different from the dysfunctional and painful ones in my past. I love that Marilyn doesn’t think my intensity is any stranger than that of her children or even her own and that she may not even see me as particularly intense at all. Asbury has been one of the hardest experiences of my life. It is not an easy place to be in and burnout tends to happen quickly but inefficiently. Almost a year later, it feels less like home to me than when I first arrived. But when I look closer, I remember there are a couple of people who have made it all worthwhile. What I have learned from my relationship with Marilyn is something I will always cherish. No matter where I go and where I end up, I know I will always have Marilyn to chat with, cry to, and to share fabulous poems and endless bounds of wit and humor with. Thanks, Marilyn, for an amazing time and one crazy ride!
Oh, and did I mention I love that Canadian accent? Sure is something, eh?
I wrote this as a photo essay of sorts on my profile for a photo site I enjoy being a part of, jpgmag.com. The assignment was to write about a photo product we use and enjoy.
Some days, I miss those hours in the darkroom—the time that would pass by unknowingly like a gambling addict in those windowless casinos, the tactile experience of placing the paper in the easel, the turning of that focus knob on the enlarger, the way magic seemed to happen as the picture began to appear on the paper as it soaked in the developer. Maybe I even miss my hands smelling like fixer for the rest of the day, reminding me of the vinegar-scented prelude to the childhood dyed-egg hunts of Easter.
For years, I easily resisted the temptation for a digital camera. I was wary of the picture quality when compared to the film I was used to, I was unsure of the way computer programs might cheapen the art of photography, and, quite simply, I was unable to afford a decent digital SLR. Finally, though, I made the plunge, and though I would have loved to have afforded a D200 (or even now a D700), I can't deny that my Nikon D40x has served me well. Very well.
Like with many photographers, my camera is my lifeline. A few months ago I spilled tea all over it, body and lens. It wouldn't turn on immediately after and I was sure my life was over. My chaplain here at grad school, whom I love but who does not see a great need for sympathy, remarked, "It's not like you lost your eyesight," and I wanted to respond back to her, "Well, it sort of is."
Fortunately, after following a friend's advice to sit it in a pile of uncooked rice, it worked fine a few hours later.
Some might describe a camera as a third eye, one more thing that helps you see. But for me, a camera is less an added eye and more like a second brain, one dedicated solely to the capture of memories. I can take pictures of landscapes, of country, city, cars, sunsets, but my energy comes from photographing people and especially photographing the people I know and the people I love. People are fascinating. They're amazing, they're cool, they're crazy, incredible, messed up, weird, and just plain unbelievable, and when I capture these moments it is for me like the endorphin rush of a runner or maybe even the adrenaline rush of a druggie. And people are worth remembering. They are worth looking back on, worth reflecting on the time spent with them.
I have come to realize my digital camera has revolutionized my picture taking life in a way my film camera possibly never would. It has opened up artistic possibilities and has changed the way I view photography. I take immensely more photos than I could have ever dreamed of with film.
And with the instant gratification of immediate access to results, it has probably upped the addictive factor of it tenfold, which I don't at all mind.
I love the accessories I can get for my camera. I enjoy drooling over the lenses I can't afford, the possibilities of what I could do even better in the future, even the excitement of the new tripod I bought to replace the one that just broke, but it is the camera itself, and the simple accessories I already have that I love. It is the ability to take pictures at will and to capture the moments and memories of my life as they happen.
I love my Nikon D40x. I love the pictures I've taken with it that are now printed and tacked up on my wall. I love what it allows me to remember. A photograph, I once wrote to a friend, is not in itself a memory, but the key that unlocks it. And when I look back on what my camera has captured, I realize it's certainly an interesting way of seeing.
Some days, I miss those hours in the darkroom—the time that would pass by unknowingly like a gambling addict in those windowless casinos, the tactile experience of placing the paper in the easel, the turning of that focus knob on the enlarger, the way magic seemed to happen as the picture began to appear on the paper as it soaked in the developer. Maybe I even miss my hands smelling like fixer for the rest of the day, reminding me of the vinegar-scented prelude to the childhood dyed-egg hunts of Easter.For years, I easily resisted the temptation for a digital camera. I was wary of the picture quality when compared to the film I was used to, I was unsure of the way computer programs might cheapen the art of photography, and, quite simply, I was unable to afford a decent digital SLR. Finally, though, I made the plunge, and though I would have loved to have afforded a D200 (or even now a D700), I can't deny that my Nikon D40x has served me well. Very well.
Like with many photographers, my camera is my lifeline. A few months ago I spilled tea all over it, body and lens. It wouldn't turn on immediately after and I was sure my life was over. My chaplain here at grad school, whom I love but who does not see a great need for sympathy, remarked, "It's not like you lost your eyesight," and I wanted to respond back to her, "Well, it sort of is."
Fortunately, after following a friend's advice to sit it in a pile of uncooked rice, it worked fine a few hours later.Some might describe a camera as a third eye, one more thing that helps you see. But for me, a camera is less an added eye and more like a second brain, one dedicated solely to the capture of memories. I can take pictures of landscapes, of country, city, cars, sunsets, but my energy comes from photographing people and especially photographing the people I know and the people I love. People are fascinating. They're amazing, they're cool, they're crazy, incredible, messed up, weird, and just plain unbelievable, and when I capture these moments it is for me like the endorphin rush of a runner or maybe even the adrenaline rush of a druggie. And people are worth remembering. They are worth looking back on, worth reflecting on the time spent with them.
I have come to realize my digital camera has revolutionized my picture taking life in a way my film camera possibly never would. It has opened up artistic possibilities and has changed the way I view photography. I take immensely more photos than I could have ever dreamed of with film.
And with the instant gratification of immediate access to results, it has probably upped the addictive factor of it tenfold, which I don't at all mind.I love the accessories I can get for my camera. I enjoy drooling over the lenses I can't afford, the possibilities of what I could do even better in the future, even the excitement of the new tripod I bought to replace the one that just broke, but it is the camera itself, and the simple accessories I already have that I love. It is the ability to take pictures at will and to capture the moments and memories of my life as they happen.
I love my Nikon D40x. I love the pictures I've taken with it that are now printed and tacked up on my wall. I love what it allows me to remember. A photograph, I once wrote to a friend, is not in itself a memory, but the key that unlocks it. And when I look back on what my camera has captured, I realize it's certainly an interesting way of seeing.
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