Life + Self

Story in Photos: Wyoming & The Black Hills 2015

November 17, 2015 by Abbigail Kriebs 1 Comment

What kind of a photographer takes two whole months to edit and post her own vacation photos?

[raises hand]

Me, that’s who.

Back in September, we road tripped out to South Dakota & Wyoming and had a lovely, wonderful time – and then promptly came home, went back to work in full force, started the agonizingly slow process of getting a driveway put in at our land, and forgot all about posting vacation photos. Whoops.

I’ll have to admit, it is kind of nice to look back just two months later and relive the moments. :)

So, photos:

Do you have a favorite vacation photo you look back at often, one that transports you back to that moment when you experienced it?

Car Accidents, Sick Days & Lasagna

October 29, 2015 by Abbigail Kriebs 6 Comments

Two weeks ago today, my car got hit by a semi.

It was actually a pretty minor accident, but the drama of that statement is too hard to pass up.

It was a young driver, in a hurry, during rush hour. He didn’t turn wide enough and the tail end of his trailer took the taillight off the back of my car and damaged the body in a couple of places. One minute I was stopped at a stoplight, a coworker and I on our way to an awards ceremony, and the next my car lurched forward on its wheels. We had no idea what happened, the semi nailing the car exactly in my blind spot. It was a terrifying moment, and even more so when I didn’t think the driver noticed: that he was going to keep driving away and leave me to deal with the mess on my own.

He did stop, and I wish I could say that we swapped numbers, worked it out and went on our merry ways – but I can’t. It started out amicably enough, but the back and forth broke down when numbers and timelines entered the picture. He wasn’t satisfied with my answers, I wasn’t pleased with his language. Trust doesn’t go very deep when its strangers and money and fault on the surface.

The week tugged me back and forth, from optimism to pessimism to disillusion. I grew mad at myself for being a nice person and getting myself into a mess; for saying “yes” when he mentioned paying out of pocket; for not calling my insurance company when the time was right. And being mad at yourself for being a nice person? That’s irrational and maddening; there is no one word to describe it, except maybe shame. Shame for disliking your own person and your own natural inclination toward kindness. I should never have to apologize for being nice, but I found me apologizing to myself for that very thing.

***

It is amazing how a single text message can cause a sleepless night, how words can cut us more than we let on.

My imagination is active enough, it doesn’t need someone to propose alternate timelines. It does just fine on its own. Anxiety is never my first response to a situation, but sometimes when we are pushed, we break. I’ve come to believe that being angry at yourself evokes a chemical reaction in your bones: your mind is not to be at odds with your soul in such a way. It isn’t fitting.

So our body, the mediator, tells us to stop.

And when you are running life at full speed, it’s a lot easier to stumble.

I woke Tuesday morning, late – too late. After a fitful night of turning and tossing and thinking oh so many things, I had overslept: right through a coffee date, right through the beginning of a new friendship, and right into a massive headache, a touch of a cold. Scott had been battling his for a week, and it was only a matter of time before I succumbed, too. Of course, it would be now.

My body knew what I wouldn’t let my mind see: I needed a day off.

I stayed home, worked from my couch. Took care of everything really important and then took a nap. I ordered flowers for the friendship that I had thought for sure I had ruined before it had even begun. Sarah was kind, understanding. Kinder to me than I was myself, and for that I am very, very grateful.

I missed book club. I know I’m sick when I willingly miss book club.

I’ll make lasagna, I thought, because of course all people cook from scratch when they take sick days. But there’s something about chopping and sautéing that sooth an unsettled mind. A recipe is a prescription of a sort, really. It tells you exactly what to do for a single desired outcome. You want a pan of lasagna? You simmer onions and sausage and garlic and tomatoes. A touch of sugar to balance the acid. Parsley and basil to season, to transport the senses elsewhere. A little time and a lot of cheese heal most wounds, I do think. A bit of pasta doesn’t hurt either.

I put together two lasagnas, one for now and one for later. Layering the sauce, the noodles, and cheese, it felt good to put together when so much of life had felt like a tumble lately. It felt good to build something nourishing. Putting that lasagna together felt like putting my life together, in a way. It’s funny how a good meal can do that, but not surprising. Jesus is the Bread of Life. I think it no coincidence that He described Himself so; a slice of warm bread makes you feel home again, whole.

***

My car is in the shop now, getting fixed. I should have it back next week and most of stress of the last two weeks should be behind me. I know I should slow down, to practice more kindness toward myself. But it’s hard. As one of my favorite people on the internet, Callie Feyen, said, “I’ve said yes to too many things this year, and all of them seem important.”

What is the most important thing right now? I’m not going to try and figure it out here, today. That’s a conversation for my self in a different setting, when I’ve got a bit more sleep in me, a little more distance. But my body is tuned to the question, and my mind is open and watching.

On Broken Cameras & Grace

October 8, 2015 by Abbigail Kriebs 2 Comments

There are weeks lately when I am really tired.

Some days, the job that I loves takes a little too much out of me. Some days, I just do not want to open my eyes when that alarm rings. Some days, I do not want to make one more decision about what to make for dinner.

It sounds ridiculous, but life can be exhausting.

And then you accidentally barely nudge your tripod at work and this happens.

Luckily, I could see it was only the filter, but I got it home and couldn’t even pry the filter off the front of the lens. I asked Scott to try and even with pliers it would not budge. And of course it would happen the week I have two shoots lined up over the weekend for the first time in months. Of course.

I still cannot believe I didn’t cry. I just went to bed. That seems to be a good answer for emotional exhaustion these days.

And then it’s Wednesday and you’ve already worked 38 hours this week and you think you’re going to head out a little early to go get your camera fixed just because you can and a coworker walks into your office at 4:30 PM because a client needs something you’ve never heard about before now and of course they need it now and you are the only person in your department at the end of the day.

You leave work a little late and shuffle your tired self and your broken camera to the camera store, bracing the whole drive for Bad News. What if the lens mount is damaged? What if it did crack the most expensive lens you own? What if…?

And then Grace.

The camera fixin’ man, he looked at my broken baby and took it confidently in hand.

“No problem. I can take care of this,” he says. He disappears into the back of the store, and I turn to busy myself with looking at tripods, thinking I might be here for a bit.

Three minutes. That’s about how long it took before he reappeared, my freed, perfectly-in-tact lens in one hand, and the broken, distorted outer ring of the busted filter in the other.

“Souvenir?” he asks, holding out what was left of the filter, fragments of plastic in a broken O.

“No thanks,” I reply. “No souvenirs necessary.” I smile, thinking of how I’ve already taken a photo of the damage. I’m standing in a camera store after all – it seems only right.

After confirming that I want a replacement, he grabs me a new filter off the wall, proceeds to put it on the camera straightaway. “I cleaned it good – might as well get a filter on.” A fixed and clean lens? Yes. Put that filter on there as soon as possible!

I thank him, I wonder the store – discuss tripods and lens rentals and camera bags with another employee. She’s helpful and passionate and you can tell she loves photography. I have the same shoes she is wearing at home. We could probably be friends.

At the end of my visit, she asks if I have any more questions. “I just need to pay for the filter and the repair,” I answer, heading back toward the counter where the empty filter case sits.

“What repair did we do?” she asks her manager, the man who pried loose the un-looseable filter.

“No charge,” he says. “We do these for fun.” He grins.

Grace is this.

The moment your heart returns to its normal size, swelling away from dread.

The moment you can pause and take a deep breath again after a day of struggling to slow down.

The moment you can look a the sunset on the commute home and smile because it is just so beautiful.

This is grace.

Where have you found grace this week? I’d love to hear your story.