Not that life isn’t without a sense of humour: no longer had I made the decision to shut everything down than I’ve had more enquiries in two weeks than the previous year combined. The true sign that I was at peace with the decision was in how I felt in turning those enquiries away: excited. Joyed. Even a cheeky sense of “too bad” as I turned them away. It’s a decision I now proudly own.

Moving on and deciding what comes next is the greatest challenge remaining. I know that I need some level of drive that comes from a project that gets me excited, from a sense of using gifts and talents, in order to keep pushing myself and my work. The exciting part are the glimpses of what that may be, and how the personal projects may actually intertwine with my full-time work. That possibility brings up the tangible, physiological response and excitement in my chest – an ability to pursue and discover exactly what the dream is with the backing, support and resources afforded from not forging ahead on my own.

I know this has been somewhat of a #vaguetweet style post, but having this particular semi-public space in which to work out some ideas works is required at some level of my process. There’s only so much I can throw things around in my mind, or in a journal, before I need to attach the (somewhat slight) weight of having them written somewhere publicly. This is evidence of me moving forward. This is proof that I can begin the next stage.

A few months ago I started to really struggle with my photography work. The amount I shoot has been on a downhill trend since Eli was born, even though since that time I have pushed myself technically and artistically, and turned out some of my best work – in some ways a surprise considering the distinct lack of time and headspace I’ve been able to dedicate to making images. There have been upward spikes in that downward trend, as a fresh bout of inspiration has hit me, or as I’ve ventured far enough to pick up my camera and view the world through it. But less and less it happens, and only when I really had to.

Paying clients were one of the big things keeping me going – and when I was shooting for a client, the joy, feelings and inspiration would return. But as soon as I was away from the shoot and the rest of my life began to quickly fill my mind, the passion would soon die and what was left was…hard. I often couldn’t bring myself to face it. Not the usual feelings of I’d much rather be shooting than editing, or Man, it’ll be great to get this work done and out of the way, but instead I struggled incredibly to even face the work that remained. There was a significant weight that was attached to photography, and one that I increasingly became unable to bear. Even realising and admitting this to myself took a long time.

The hardest part in this realisation was that so much of my professional (and private) identity has been wrapped up in being a photographer. I bought my very first camera of my own in a life stage where I was starting to figure out who I was irrespective of anyone else’s input or sway on my life. It quickly flooded all throughout my life – my kit went with me. I don’t want to think about how many thousands of dollars I spent shooting 35mm before I ever owned a DSLR (and it’s the reason I never had any savings). Fast forward a few years and I met my now wife, and the first time we met I was working as a photographer. I used to take photos of her, of us, and we’d spend our then seemingly empty days driving around, visiting places, shopping (her) and shooting (me). I built a fairly decent small business that earned me a fair amount of money considering I worked full time at another job, and even got to the point of having to pass on weddings to other photographers during the busy season, because I was already booked.

I can’t emphasise the fact that I was a photographer to the core. My dad has been a hobbyist photographer for the better part of 55 years. I grew up shooting on his Nikon EM and FG film bodies, learning about focal lengths, apertures, and exposure as far back as I can remember. As soon as I owned my own kit, it went with me in the car wherever I went. If I saw a frame in my mind, I’d pull over and shoot it.

I saw the world as a photographer. Everywhere I went I was visualising how what was before my eyes would translate to the frame. My inner dialogue used to be filled with trying to figure out how best to balance what would be a tricky exposure as fog rolled away in morning sunlight. Conversations with people would have me noting on some level how the light was falling on their face, and the kind of portrait it would make.

And then it stopped.

This year has been the hardest year of my life, the hardest year of our marriage, the hardest year of our parenthood. We’ve had to sacrifice some things willingly, but for me a lot was sacrificed unknowingly, as I began to lose the ability to keep what used to be an integral part of my headspace there – there was simply too much more that demanded attention and time. The sense of loss that went along with this was far greater than I ever thought it would be. I felt like I was in mourning. It felt like I had lost a part of myself. Next to my desk would sit a bag of equipment that used to be such a privilege and thrill to open and use, and instead it sat mocking me, taunting me, and hurting me. No longer was the desire there, and what used to be a something that centred me, filled me, and relaxed me, became something that drained and pained me. I couldn’t face it, and when I did, it only served to frustrate me.

I finally came to the realisation that letting go and moving on was simply the only option left. As much as family would tell me that it was deliberately moving on and closing something, to me it has only felt like defeat and failure.

I’m a photographer. I was a photographer. I still felt like a photographer, even though I couldn’t bring myself to do anything as a photographer. My father, in his 70s and fighting both Parkinson’s Disease and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, shoots tens upon hundreds upon thousands of photos of Eli, every week when he goes to their house on a Wednesday night and Thursday. And me, the professional photographer, can’t even pick up his camera to take a photo of his wife or son.

My last client work is all but wrapped up, and with it comes the hardest decision of all. Do I close down the online portfolios and redirect the URL to this blog or some intermediary page, or do I leave them up knowing that if an enquiry or job opportunity comes along, it well be more detrimental than beneficial.

Like I said before, it’s a brave-faced acceptance – and that is only of the fact that I’m not a photographer any more. But it’s not an euphoric, weight-lifting acceptance. It’s one that still hurts.

I miss the days of going out on assignment, meeting people and taking their portraits. With the shutdown of the magazine we used to print, the only chance I really get to be on the road creating frames is once a year when the new batch of candidates are announced for their ordination. Even then, it’s a run-and-gun portrait shoot bouncing between white seamless and an outdoor setting, without the chance to take a breath, look and build a photo from concept up.

I’ve been blessed with a kid who is starting to come around to being in front of the lens, and will happily let me fire off photos when I’m testing lighting, fixing gear, or even just scratching the photo itch if it has been too long. Today, it was all about fixing a couple of umbrella brackets, which eventually turned into a test for an as-quick-as-possible single light setup.

He was willing. He still just needs to remember to open his eyes when he smiles.

It’s got me dreaming and planning about making a series of these of people we know, and building a wall of faces. At the very least, there’s a couple of portraits I want to take in the next few months before time gets away too much. I want to use the skills and desire I have to gift people with a decent portrait of themselves if I can. So if you want in, let me know!

Today saw a difference to my usual Monday work routine. Mondays are usually my full work from home day, whereas today was a staff retreat day. All of us headed to Amberley Retreat Centre for a day of vision and planning for 2013. A good time shared with colleagues whose company I enjoy, and productive in terms of focusing us collectively for the remainder of the year to come, it was a 15 minute late in the program that challenged me.

We were given the opportunity to spread out amongst the grounds and spend some time in quiet and reflection, as a means to bring some closure to the dreaming that had taken place during the day. I headed straight outside and lay in the lawn in front of the main building, and spent my time starting at the cloudless sky. What I thought was going to be a simple enough task became a more concerted effort, and I came to a realisation: my thoughts are crowded.

I thought reflecting on the day would be an easy idea, however as soon as distractions were left behind, thoughts about anything and everything rushed to fill the space. As I was tried to force my thoughts down the path of walking through the discussions of the day my mind would throw up distractions of many kind: plans of things I want to do to the camper trailer, thoughts of having learnt to weld the previous day, what a fantastic location the grounds would make for a shoot, dinner for the evening, the office/home work balance, traffic on the way home, conversations I want to have with colleagues. It seems that there is a cacophony simply waiting for me to be still enough so it can take over.

Thinking about it in the time since then, I’ve realised that I no longer make any time for quiet in my life. I find myself so scarce of time free from work, Beth, Eli, hobbies, things I want to watch/listen to, reading, friends and family, that finding some time spare quickly goes to one of those other things. They’re not necessarily a good way to spend that time (and I don’t want to think about how many hours/days/weeks I’ve lost to the TV series and movies that have been watched), but there are so many things waiting to fill any of that spare time that there is no intentionality in making that spare time, and making it to be quiet. I’m realising it’s a cycle that I’m revisiting through busy and quiet times in my life, even if that cycle is years in between repetitions. After a hard 15 minutes of mentally wrestling, it’s become clear I just need to make time to be quiet, to be still, and let my mind catch up with the pace of everything else. I need to make time to retreat, not just when work directs me to.

I blinked. That’s all that seems to have happened, but I did what so many people will tell you – blink and you miss it. The baby who I see in the most recent previous entry is far gone, replaced with a talking, reasoning, climbing, running, counting, singing, iDevice-using little man who we share our life with.

I can’t seem to work out where the last two and a half years have gone. As I read through some old posts, after being reminded of this oft-neglected corner of the internet, it is truly amazing what has changed in that time. While I still work for the same employer, my work is so vastly different. We’ve farewelled our housemates of five years  when they moved with their boys and dog to the other end of the country. We’ve moved house, moved church, changed cars, and changed lifestyles. But to see that baby smiling up from a couch, compared to the boy who will carry his dishes to the kitchen and get his own frozen yoghurt icy pole when dinner is finished, it seems like only a blink has gone by.

But if in the process he ends up in a really, really comfortable position, then nothing is going to get in-between him and his enjoyment.

The struggle has come to a head recently, and it has (coincidentally enough) been in my thoughts a fair bit. I’m sure that Eli is not the only contributing factor. Part of it has to do with the place that work is in right now. So many changes have occurred to my job over the last year that my position description now (again) no longer reflects what I actually do. Blissfully, a lot of the crap has been cut from my job, and I’m able to solely focus on the parts that I love, and the parts that stretch me. On top of all that, the changes that are happening to our workplace mean that everything is up for grabs – including the opportunity to start afresh on many aspects that have become either run down over time, or completely neglected or ignored. At the junction of the two changes is me: the new role has me doing a lot more creative and deadline work, and at the same time I have the opportunity to be researching and presenting and pleading the case for things I see we need to be doing that we just flat out aren’t. There are simple, simple things that an organisation of our standing should be doing, which haven’t even been discussed – and we now have the opportunity to look into them. Again, in the forefront of all of those opportunities is me, with the chance to begin to widen the scope of our work, and enhance the quality and professionalism of what we do.

All of that requires time. Time not just to research, collate, present and enact, but time to think. This is where the struggle lands me. There are these marvelous opportunities to push the envelope and in the process push the limits of my professional abilities, and they all require the time and headspace to even begin to do them justice. Don’t get me wrong, the creative work I get to do is fantastic, and barring the odd logistical headache, enjoyable as hell. But having the ability to dream big has me excited about my career in a way I haven’t been for a while. I want to give my headspace over to this to do it justice, but I struggle to find the ability to do that. And all of this is from my nine-to-five job.

The real complicating factor is when you begin to add in the other aspects of my life that require major headspace. I run a photography business on the side. I have clients to deal with, photos to edit, shots to prepare for and actually shoot, a new assistant to encourage, grow and adjust to shooting with someone else, all on top of the other work. I’m part of a team that runs an online community that is undergoing a time of major change and development, and requires thought to go into the future direction we should take. There’s documents to read and ingest, and responses to plan for an upcoming meeting. Not to mention the day to day keeping up with the site itself. I’m also a dad. A dad who gets to work the majority of his time from home, which puts me in the luckiest bracket going.  I’m above all of that a husband. All of these things vie for that seemingly ever-diminishing headspace, in a battle that seems to be only ever increasing in intensity.

And then something like this happens:

We just spent eight days on holiday down in Anglesea, and after finally sitting down and worrying about nothing more than meals, Eli, and whether to sit in the sun or the shade, I realised that I needed to stop. It even took me five days before I made this startling realisation, that I needed to slow down, and to breathe. All of those things are a part of my life, that isn’t going to change. But they all also require me to prioritise where my time and headspace to go, and not to let them dictate that to me.

I made this frame of Eli one morning after breakfast. We were camped in amongst these trees that provided shade in the morning (bliss when sleeping under canvas in Summer), and some respite from the coastal wind. Sitting amongst them, feeding Eli his breakfast, the idea came to mind of the image: a child surrounded by twisted, dark trees, but not overcome by them – curious and brave and with a nature of exploration. And that was the particular moment when it all clicked.

The littlest bear no longer will sit or lay down in the bath. Since discovering he can stand, that’s all he’ll do.

He’s got cheek. And he knows it.

I got myself wrapped up a little too tightly in life with him, if I’m honest. My ‘excuse’ was that I was busy enjoying spending time with him, instead of stalking him through the lens. The other ‘excuse’ that went hand in hand was that I didn’t want to think of it as work. But when I’m even more brutally honest, it wouldn’t have been work. I wouldn’t have missed out on spending time with him. I just don’t know what happened.

It’s taken him a few sessions with me pointing a big lens at him for his memory and understanding of just what it is to come back. That first night he wouldn’t look directly at the camera, something he’d figured out very early on. But it is coming back. He’s more and more at ease with the camera each time I’m pointing it at him, and he’s responding more and more to it. And me? It’s given me a completely different kind of joy and excitement at some of the frames I’ve made of my son.