A-round, round, wheels goin’ round round round.
Down up pedals, down up down.
But I gotta get across to the other side of town,
Before the sun goes down.
Hey, hey, hey!
Category Archives: Personal
It was 1995. We sat huddled on the couch, Anna and I, knees to our chest, as the storm raged over and around us. I vividly remember the overwhelming sense of fear, coupled with an incredible feeling of awe which, powerful as it was at the time, didn’t quite balance out the terror I felt. I put on a brave face though, well at least I tried to, as the space around us flashed and rumbled, with no seperation between the forks of light and the angry sounds they made as they thundered their way between the heavens and earth. Every hair on my body stood on end, the air was so charged with electricity. Even if I screwed my eyes shut I still felt the storm and it’s power. It was the most incredible moment of my life. Nothing has ever made me feel so small, and humble, and ineffectual.
There’s always been a small part of me that’s been terrified by storms. I’d be drawn to them out of curiousity, and a sense of wonder, sitting with my face pressed to the window as the night sky lit up around me. But, at the same time, I had to force myself to watch. I had to overcome my desire to run. And hide. But in Papua New Guinea, in 1995, there was nowhere to run to. Or hide. Though they weren’t often bad as this particular one, they were as regular a part of life as flicking the tv on in the evening. Or running to the shops for milk. Or going to the gardens to pick a pineapple for dessert. Splitting a coconut for it’s sweet, cool water. It was a part of life. And I never quite got used to it in the 20 months I was there.
But, oddly enough, I miss it now. The fierceness. The raw, unadulterated power. The feeling of being so small, humble, and ineffectual.
Last night, though, it was near again. That feeling. We had one of the biggest, craziest displays of lightening I’ve seen here in Melbourne. While not immediately overhead, it was all around. Whichever direction I turned I was bound to catch a glimpse of it. If I closed my eyes, my eyelids would still flicker as the night around me became day, in frequent but random bursts. It took me straight back to Papua New Guinea, and to that sofa. And to a passage in the Bible that I’d read, perhaps for the first time, once that storm had passed. I am often reminded of it, as often as we have storms at least, and am humbled. Yes, I feel small and ineffectual. But never insignificant. That’s what humbles me. I am part of this incredible world that God created, and therefore I have worth. Undeniable and indefinable worth.
“Consider: God is so great that we cannot know him; the number of his years is past searching out. He draws up drops of water from the sea and distils rain from the flood; the rain-clouds pour down in torrents, they descend in showers on the ground; thus he sustains the nations and provides food in plenty.
Can anyone read the secret of the billowing clouds, spread like a carpet under his pavilion? See how he scatters his light about him, and its rays cover the sea. He charges the thunderbolts with flame and launches them straight at the mark; in his anger he calls up the tempest, and the thunder is the herald of its coming.
This too makes my heart beat wildly and start from its place. Just listen to the thunder of God’s voice, the rumbling of his utterance! Under the vault of heaven he lets it roll, and his lightning flashes to the ends of the earth. There follows a sound, a roaring as he thunders with majestic voice. At God’s command wonderful things come to pass; great deeds beyond our knowledge are done by him. For he says to the snow, ‘Fall over the earth’; to the rainstorms he says ‘Be violent,’ and at his voice the rains pour down unchecked. He shuts everyone fast indoors, and all whom he has made are quiet; beasts withdraw into their lairs and take cover in their dens. The hurricane bursts from its prison, and the rain-winds bring bitter cold. By the breath of God the ice is formed, and the wide waters are frozen hard. He hurls lightning from the dense clouds, and the clouds spread his light, as they travel round in their courses, directed by his guiding hand to do his bidding all over the habitable world; whether for punishment or for love he brings them forth.
Teach us then what to say to him; for all is dark, and we cannot marshal our thoughts. Can anyone dictate to God when he is to speak, or command him to make proclamation? At one moment the light is not seen, being overcast with cloud; then the wind passes by and clears it away, and a golden glow comes from the north. But the Almighty we cannot find; his power is beyond our ken, yet in his great righteousness he does not pervert justice.
Therefore mortals pay him reverence, and all who are wise fear him. “ Job 36:27-37:24
You’re writing the story of your life, one moment at a time.
When I take a photograph I like to think I capture more than just an image. I know I rattle on about this, but to me photography is not just about pushing a button and having something pretty to show for it. It’s much more than that. Life is a series of unrepeatable opportunities and irreplaceable moments, each one telling their own story. That’s what I love to capture. The story behind the moment. The life being lived at that point in time.
Me being me I second guess my abilities all the time. I constantly strive to be a better photographer, and often wind up feeling like the worst. I compare myself to all the wonderful people that inspire me and by my own estimation I fall short. But then an email shows up in my inbox, encouraging me beyond measure. I feel like I am actually reaching out to people in the manner that I desire. Somewhere along the way our hearts are meeting and connections are being forged. I inhale, absorb, exhale, and keep going. Inspired.
But I am blessed most of all when I’m able to look back on the images I’ve captured of my children. Moment by moment their lives have unfold before me, and I’ve done my best to capture them as they’ve happened, telling the story of their lives as I’ve seen it.
That is at the heart of what I do. It’s why I do what I do.
We all have a story.
It deserves to be told.
Narrelle x
I accidentally jammed Jaedon’s finger in the door this morning, in the process of putting him in his room for being naughty. So not only was he upset because he was in trouble but also because he now had a throbbing, slightly squashed finger. What’s a mum to do in that situation. There’s not much thought to it really - this is where the nuturing side kicks in and over-rides any pre-existing condition. Of course I forget about whatever he’s done and take him into my arms, trying to make the world a better place one hug at a time.
Gradually the tears subsided, and the sobs grew quieter. Calm enough to listen I asked him if he wanted a sticker (code-name for ‘band-aid’ or ‘plaster’) to make his finger feel better? He managed to squeeze out a feeble Yes, please, then proceeded to direct me as to where to place it. There, that was better. The world was suddenly a better place.
It’s remarkable how much better his finger was feeling, especially given he asked me to put the sticker on his forehead.
{ Children’s Photography Melbourne }
I still remember how tiny he was. And how dainty. I used to sit and stare at his sweet little face for what seemed like hours on end. It could have been hours. Time had no meaning or relevance in the early days of motherhood. Even though he was sleeping overnight by 8 weeks of age, he never did settle well in the middle of the day. Often naps ended up with him curled in a ball on my chest, while I lay on the couch supposedly watching TV (catching up on Friends re-runs) or napping myself. In reality I used to just look at him. Watch him breathe, letting those heart-tugging baby sighs escape from his perfect little lips.
I still love to sit and stare at his sweet little face. He’s not so much a dainty little boy any more, but his features are still quite delicate. Childish. Pure. His cute little button nose (from his daddy) his blonde, curled-at-the-end eyelashes (from me), his kissable lips, pinchable cheeks, and mischevious twinkle in his eyes.
There are days like today when I almost make it through, not having taken a single photo, and not wanting to ‘force a moment’ simply for the sake of getting it done. But then I catch a glimpse of my beautiful, soulful, happy little boy, fresh out of the bath, snuggled up in a towel watching his favourite tv show. I stop doing my supposed chores for the evening and I simply watch. Stare. Marvel. And let one of those full-hearted mummy sighs escape my lips.
