Blowing on Dandelions

I’ve taken photographs of lots of other things. Objects and landscapes. Fenceposts, signs, trees, fields, shoes, bikes. But none of them seem as vibrant as when I take a picture of Mina. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m biased about my daughter. Maybe I’m a poor photographer (I probably am). But when it comes to Mina on film, it’s so easy for me to look at a photograph and say “that is good”. Maybe it’s the subject. She is in my very non-objective opinion, a stunning little girl.

I really wish to grow creatively in my photography endeavors. I wish to take some sort of class, read more, practice more, maybe get a different type of lens. But even if I don’t, I know I can pick up my camera and feel completely fine with the pictures I take of my daughter.

Sometimes, I wonder what all these pictures I’m taking will mean later. I hope she gets enjoyment out of having access to them. I hope I get to print some and put them up as my own wall art. I actually got a small canvas of this picture. When I wonder is that all? I just start remembering the particular pleasure I got in getting a certain shot. Photographs captures certain magical moments. At least in my life they do. That picture I had printed on canvas makes me remember a wonderful morning when the light was hitting Mina just so, and she was giggly and trying to hide from me behind her blankie. This picture below captures her at four years and seven months old, and certain days and certain hours. She’ll never be that young again. Next time I pick up my camera she may not blow out dandelions with the same abandon and lack of self-consciousness.

Photographs tell a story. And when it’s your story, it’s even more special, even more treasured. This is my story.


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