I remember when my dad took Polaroids of me as a kid. I happily posed, and then anticipated each moment to follow: the film magically gliding out of the camera, the words kindly spoken by my dad, “Don’t peel it yet”, and then, the reveal. The image coming to life right before my eyes as if a magician had waved his wand. By middle school, I took my first photography class and was hooked. My first camera was a Konica, and then a Pentax. I took a few classes in my early 20’s, but then, between work and kids, the time I made for photography decreased each year.
Before I knew it, I had let three decades and the revolution of digital photography sneak right past me. As a recent empty-nester, needing to fill my soul with creativity, joy, and a sense of purpose, I wondered if my former interest in photography might be rekindled. I made that first investment in a Canon Rebel, small enough to fit my tiny hands, and splurged on a zoom lens. I even got a free camera bag and who wouldn’t love that!
I walked out of the store excited about this new journey which I planned to attack with an “all in” attitude. Once home, I unpacked my new toys and… I panicked! What were all these buttons? And this menu with more options than my favorite Chinese restaurant. With secret disappointment, I told myself, “Just keep it on the green ‘A’ for now.”
My kids came to the rescue, and though I lived in Pennsylvania, they paid for three beginner photography classes in New York, which I have always considered home. I felt certain that after taking these classes, I would remember what seemed so intuitive about my old Pentax and would move that green A to the letter M that seemed strangely larger than the other icons on the wheel.
On March 15, 2016, I went through my checklist: Camera bag? Check. Camera in camera bag? Check. Bus ticket from Philly to New York? Check. I jumped into the car to be dropped off at the bus station by my husband, and placed the camera bag carefully by my feet. A fast stop at the local Whole Foods and we would be on our way.
We parked in the lot, and moving with my usual quickness, I jumped out, when I felt a tug around the bottom of my left leg. Within a split second, I went from sitting in the passenger seat to lying on the soaking wet pavement in terrible pain unlike anything I had felt before. I knew in an instant that my leg was broken. The camera bag strap had become entangled around my ankle, trapping my lower body inside the car while my upper body sprung out.
Recovery involved a metal rod, a bunch of screws, and months on the couch. I took just a few photos during that time: pictures of the couch covered with floral fabric, and one of a gilded and green lamp on the table next to the couch. I endlessly reenacted the moment that I stepped out of the car, and thought about the villain, the brand new camera bag that my friends told me to burn. But I knew I could not do that. I decided to make the camera bag my symbol of victory to represent my desire and determination to push through adversity and literally get back on my feet.
On December 2, 2016, I picked up that camera bag as if it was my Olympic gold medal, proudly draped it across my body, took a celebratory selfie and posted on Facebook, “See that bag hanging across my body? That’s the bag that took me down on March 15. I’m taking that bag with my camera inside and heading to New York, limp, titanium rod and screws in tow. Cannot wait to snap that first shot.”
I did snap that first shot and thousands more. I continue to use that camera bag and wear it as a reminder of the victory I had achieved. What I did not realize is that the object inside the bag, the camera, would become my physical and emotional healer, but that is a story for next time…
