Altered Reality

Today's post is about perception. What you see here is post-processed almost beyond recognition. This isn't a statement on digital art versus photography, this is dedicated to my Grampa.

Have you ever found yourself consumed by thoughts of another? Realize you haven't actually spoken to that person in several days, and find yourself consumed with the desire to touch base? Today that happened to me.

It's hard these days to get my grandfather on the phone, and even harder to get him on a "good day." The hardest part is living so far away from him, and having to rely on the phone for communication. He doesn't live at home anymore because he needs more skilled care than our family can provide; he gets confused a lot. When he's confused, it's like he sees the world through a haze of memories, through filters of his own forgotten experiences and feelings. People get mixed up for a minute, his sense of time and place isn't always reality. Sometimes he sees things that aren't there, or sees them in such a way that you are forced to look at them differently, too.

Today was a good day. Today when I talked to my Grampa he sounded as hale and hearty as could be. Today he sounded like he could have cut, split, and hauled about eight cord of wood before lunch. We had a great conversation. Then time and place shifted for him, and he mentioned something that made me recall one of my fondest memories.

When we were kids, at the beginning of every summer, Gramp would always take a pine board and cut it into a rectangle with a notch on each end, making swing-boards. Then he'd set up the sawhorses in the driveway and cover them with an old piece of plywood -- making "paint benches." We'd get to choose from whatever colors were available, and we'd have great fun decorating our swing-boards. We'd have to wear our "play-clothes" and cover those up with some old aprons, but we thought it was the best fun ever to make polka dots and swirls and whatever else we could dream up, and always in as many colors as were available. Each year, we'd try to best last year's design.

At the edge of the lawn, just before the hayfield, there were two trees about 12 feet apart, with interlocking limbs. Hackmatacks, I think. It was a solemn ritual every year to tie big thick ropes to the limbs of the trees, and fit the swingboards into the rope. Then we'd stand there and promise not to swing too high, or jump off at the height of the arc into the hayfield, or to twist the ropes up too much, and to swing straight instead of side-to-side so we wouldn't hit the trees and knock our heads off. Of course, we were just kids and as soon as Gramp's back was turned we'd always tried to swing too high, and see who could make the greatest leap into the air, and twist those ropes until we got dizzy with the sheer delight of un-spinning them.

And just for a minute I was 6 years old again.

So today I went back to the plant, and tried to see it the way my Grampa might: having to look twice and think hard to recognize it, seeing it through an altered perception, and with a bright light (almost hidden) to guide him out of the vision and lead him back to reality.

Yes, today was a good day, Grampa. I know there's no computer where you are, and that you'll never get to see this post... but I saw it for you.