10? 20? 30? 40? 50?… 1?
And would you change anything if you knew the answer?
I would.
The obvious question is:
Why am I not doing that already?
—Peter.
10? 20? 30? 40? 50?… 1?
And would you change anything if you knew the answer?
I would.
The obvious question is:
Why am I not doing that already?
—Peter.
Prosophos 
How timely, Peter. Between you, the m9p, and Italy, I’ve asked just that question lately. Thank you.
Thank YOU Henry.
Peter, that is awesome. I think about this all the time! Not just with Summers, but with all the seasons. It always puts things in perspective for me. I wonder how many sledding trips will I have with my boys. Or, how many summer afternoons on our pontoon at the cabin. Hopefully I can instill those thoughts and ‘appreciations’ in my kids. I think as photographers, we sometimes appreciate those little moments more than most folks. We study old masters and can relate with what they have captured and how it influences our work and our lives. Good stuff. Way better than talking about sensor size!
photoomaha wrote:
“Good stuff. Way better than talking about sensor size!”
Yeah, I know. I’ve been guilty of that lately. I have to let it run its course, then I can focus on the important stuff.
I’m glad you liked the post.
This was the exact conversation my wife and I had this evening!
-bijan
>
Are you really sure that you aren’t already doing that?
I am, and I think that so are you.
I think I’m doing better than I did 8 eight years ago, but worse than two years ago.
Very intriguing post;
It is wise to ask these sorts of questions once in awhile…
Peter.
Thanks for broadening the scope of your blog with this left of field issue that is very relevant to me. Your image is very appropriate and thought provoking. I’m 68 and have been reflecting on this since retirement three years ago and in my own way I am counting summers. However, on the basis that there are summers around the world at different times of the year I am now taking all steps to make the most of life. M9-P and lenses have travelled further than ever, and the pursuit of pleasurable times in the face of unwanted illnesses is paramount. New trips are constantly in my mind but admittedly not everyone is able to do this and plans become tempered by thoughts of diminishing finances and of course, mental and physical capabilities. The rational and sometimes irrational fears associated with these matters are difficult to shake off – especially when one is on one’s own. Very few in my circle of friends get this though and push such thoughts out of their mind. Somehow I think that they will want to get a life when it is too late! My solution – which is in place and actively determining my activities – is a plan to fund an interesting and stimulating lifestyle over a realistic period and hopefully only leave my camera, lenses and images behind when I depart.
Lucerne wrote:
“…there are summers around the world at different times of the year…”
That’s a profound and reassuring comment Lucerne. I never thought about it that way — that we can increase our summers, so to speak.
Thank you, and for what it’s worth, I love your plan.
—Peter.
Peter, I read your post just after having read Isaiah Berlin’s ‘Message to the 21st Century’, a speech made in 1994. So there was a sort of meeting of the synapses as my head conflated the essay and your post. Berlin talks about competing ideals. I think in the case of the sentiment you raise, we are dealing with the competing ideals of prudence and spontaneity. It’s a little more complex than that I know, but let’s run with that – forward planning and delayed gratification versus living in the moment and not taking time for granted.
We must all find our balance in that.
To know you only had one summer left would be terrifying and liberating all at once I suppose. Fear of the unknown and of loss, but freedom from prudence and the chance to live more in the way a child does.
Perhaps the trick – presuming we might think we have a chance at more summers than one – is to harness the joy of living without giving away prudence altogether.
We all fall victim to the illusion of permanence.
I’m in hospital as it happens. Herniated disc at L5 and S1 and sciatica. Operation probably required. In the great scheme of things, nothing serious. But just this morning, looking at the X-ray hanging on the light box I thought ‘well those bits of me are stuffed. I’d better take better care!’
Anyway, here’s Berlin’s speech, one of the most poignant things I’ve read in a while:
http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2014/oct/23/message-21st-century/
Thanks for the link Linden, and for your thoughts. More importantly, I wish you a speedy recovery…
Well Linden I have just had my T11/T12 fused about 6 months ago. Not the best experience…but you realise when in hospital there are a lot more people in a worse situation than yourself…..
Peter very poignant and thoughtful….as Robin Williams (John Keating) quoted Whitman in Dead Poets Society
“O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play “goes on” and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Way to go, Andrew! Walt Whitman! Nice to see somebody else reaching into the sea of verses for part of their comment.
I will offer another verse, from a different culture that is (sort of) in accord with this discussion.
One of Basho’s most famous haiku reads (bearing in mind the original is written in kanji and there are as many translations as Paul Simon found ways to leave your lover):
this road –
no one walks it
Autumn evening
Perhaps the prevailing explication of this was that Basho was sad that his students/disciples could not or did not follow his way of writing. Jane Hirshfield, however, in her small monogram on the great Japanese haiku master has a better idea and one I want to adopt here. Basho, she notes, traveled across Japan as a Buddhist lay monk and was quite devoted to the principles of Zen, one of which would be that (understanding that the kanji symbol for road is also that for path) in Zen there is no separation between the path and the one who walks it, leaving the haiku to say, in part (it’s never that simple), there is no road, no walker, only the path. Autumn and evening are often “symbols” (English forms don’t fit well) of aging and together might suggest a journey coming near it’s end.
Not sure where that leaves things, except to wish all of you on your own roads the best of travels.
In late September, a dear friend of mine suddenly went missing on a snorkeling trip, and after much searching, the police and rescue teams presumed him deceased. He lived a very rugged and active life, being a social worker in trauma counseling, avid traveler to remote parts of Asia and Southeast Asia, and a very dedicated martial artist.
As I looked back through my photographs of him, I found that I didn’t have anywhere near as many as I had thought. The most artistically compelling had been taken with my M9 and Zeiss Sonnar 50mm, and my Panasonic GH3 with Voigtlander Nokton 25/0.95, but I have only a handful like that. I wish I had more photos of him, and I wish I had used the gear I love the most. But I am grateful to have what I have.
We held a memorial service for him on the weekend, just over a month after his vanishing. It was a poignant and surprisingly joyful occasion with over 50 people in attendance, as he was a much admired and loved man. Earlier photos of him adorned the walls and the air was full of reminiscences about him and the sharing of our experiences. I will always remember him as a great man and wonderful friend, and his memory serves to inspire me in so many ways.
He lived like he knew how many summer he had left.
Please accept my condolences for the loss of your friend. Thank you for taking the time to write that beautiful remembrance.