.the gift of bread.

The other night, my sister and I made a trip to Hillsboro Village here in Nashville and decided to stop into a little Japanese restaurant called "The Taste of Tokyo."  It had been at least 5 years since I had step foot into this little place but I recalled its friendly service and reasonable prices.  So sure enough, we were greeted with a hearty hello by the owner of the restaurant from across the room, a Chinese woman by the name of Lucy.  Yes, I know. It is a Chinese couple that own and run this well known and loved Japanese restaurant nestled in this trendy strip of 21st Avenue.  And so, my sister Iris and I were escorted to our table.  I had the bento box.  She had sushi.  The food was superb of course.  Despite the fact that I spilled miso soup onto my lap is another story.  As we were being given our check, the chef and co-owner Peter, came up and asked if we were from Nashville.  Our answer was rather swishy as we both now live in Nashville but are originally from Hawai'i.  We said a, "Yeah, sorta," like a couple of teenage dimwits and he smiled and handed us a loaf of bread.  For the life of me, I could not make out what he said due to his accent (which surprises me because I'm rather good at making out what people are saying despite an accent) and to the noise of other patrons in this tiny dining room. We smiled and said our sincerest of thanks-yous and as he left, Iris and I both looked at each other with a questioning look.  "Who gives bread to a stranger?"  Hmmm...

After having paid our bill and once again saying our thanks for a wonderful meal and for the loaf, I began to think of the deeper meaning to this offering.  It is customary in many cultures to offer gifts of bread and salt to visitors as a way of showing that they are welcome there.  Very much like bringing a pie to someone just moving into the neighborhood.  Which who even does that any more?  In this case, perhaps this was Peter's way of saying "welcome to the neighborhood."  My thoughts went back again to just the act of giving to strangers.  How times have change now.  We are so consumed with our own lives that to acknowledge and offer friendship to a complete stranger is well, in some cases, inconvenient and intimidating, not to mention down right scary!  Which oddly enough, was the conversation that Iris and I had while eating our meal.  Maybe we should just get over the fear and just connect.  Make ourselves more open to the possibility of a beautiful friendship.  Maybe we should all be making some pie!

As I sit here, enjoying my piece of this glorious mixed grain bread, spackled with butter, I believe I shall pull out my stationary box and write a note to the folks at "The Taste of Tokyo" saying simply "thank you" for this gift.  

.journey of man.

When it comes to documentary films, I usually find myself extremely attracted to ones pertaining to that of humankind and the world in which we live.  As a teenager, I can recall a time where I felt called to become an Anthropologist.  Not so much the Archaeologist as the thought of digging up things, specifically human bones, just didn't sit well.  No, I wanted to study cultures.  My personal choice:  Native American studies.  So where am I going with this?  Well tonight, I was able to watch a documentary titled, Journey of Man, that aired on NPT (Nashville Public Television).  Dr. Spencer Wells, a geneticist, has undertaken a phenomenal project in which he utilizes DNA from individuals from Africa, Australia, India, Central Asia, and far eastern Siberia to trace back the  origins of human race.  What was fascinating for me, as it always is when I watch documentaries held in countries and places I can only imagine visiting, was how people survive and have survived in the remotest of places.  Of course, any "theory" one has on the origins of man will follow with heavy debate, but I must say that I was rather enthralled by the scientific evidence that Dr. Wells was able to obtain through DNA.  To say that we all have stemmed from one Man out of Africa is...well, for me, believable.  With that being said, I was inspired by the idea, the probability that we, you and I, are many many MANY generations back, related.  We are all one giant family.  Or as we say back in Hawai'i, "Ohana."  

.moving in.

And we are STILL moving. My poor computer is unhooked and my internet won't be installed until next week. I am dying to blog! Hopefully once everything is ready to go, I will be up and running by middle of next week. We hope. Thank God for siblings and their access to the Web. :o)

.forgotten faces.

It's amazing how a simple photo I had taken during a venture to an antique store could change how I see life through photos. A framed portrait taken of a mother and daughter possibly during the Victorian era, came across my eyes for the second time while sifting through photographs I had taken that day at the antiques mall. "Why so intrigued?" you might ask yourselves of me. Well, maybe it's because the hormones from my recent childbearing hasn't worn off completely and I find myself feeling rather “sensitive." Or perhaps, it's knowing that in my photo, I caught a glimpse of a mother and daughter whose names and faces no one alive could possibly recall. I wonder to myself, ‘Well, who were they? What were their names?’ As I stare at this photo, the thing that strikes me the most when looking upon the faces of this pair is that they have such a soft look about them. The tenderness and love between mother and child glows sweetly from beneath the glass of the frame. My eyes are drawn to the face of this little girl. Her eyes gazing so intently into the camera lens that originally captured her image; her lips gently pulled back imposing a smile. ‘Did she know her photographer? What stories would she tell?’ Then, I think back to photographs that my Grandfather and I have gone over. Old photos of family and friends that I am surprised, thankfully, he can still give names to. But there were other photos that didn't have as much luck with his rather keen memory. Truth is there are thousands of photos of people scattered across the country collecting in antique stores, or commonly stashed away in our dark attics, with not a name to place them. They are faces of those who at one time meant something to someone. Maybe they weren’t famous, but rather simply well known amongst a few many, and yet, all too soon forgotten after just a few generations.

Photography to me is no longer just about taking a picture fit for a frame. Photos now have a deeper meaning. They are images recorded in time. Stories captured in a moment. After I am gone, I'd like to think that my children's children will still be able to pull out a photo, worn and faded, of me and say, "Her name is Kathryn Evans. Some called her Kathy and some called her Kat. This is what she looked like and this is her story..." (blog originally posted in 2007 on www.myspace.com/gypsypicsphotography)

.almost bare.

There are less than two days left before my family and I take all our earthly possessions, our faithful dog, laundry, unopened boxes of cake mix and head off to Nashville. It has been a bittersweet last several days here in Kentucky. We've made such wonderful friends and have fallen so in love with the picturesque scenery, that I know all will be missed. But it's off to "bigger and better things". . . we hope.

There is nothing more depressing for anyone who has ever had to pick up and move than to see the bare walls of what was once called "home." The cute little house we have lived in for little over a year, in a town very much like Maybury, will be sorely missed. It was the first place to welcome our newborn home. It has been a place of refuge and reflection. Needless to say, it was when I started to strip the wall of a clock, the shelf of most of it's display contents when I realized just how empty this place was becoming. The last two items: a white cutout of the letter "K" and a mister. Nothing of great significance. Just a simple reminder of a wee house on Main Street, in a town called Wilmore that I'm going to miss.

.urban textures.

Some times the best places to get a great shot of color and texture may be just down the road. During a recent weekend drive around the Bluegrass with the family, we came across a small town named Stanford. We pulled into the parking lot of the Stanford L&N Railroad Depot (now a musuem and park) and decided to go for a little browse around the place. What we found was an old mill that stood away from the actual depot. My memory fails me at the moment because I can't recall what kind of mill it was. The place was rundown. Pigeons having made their nests within its unoccupied structure. Weather beaten and overgrown with foliage, the mill was still able to stand out with it's unique colors. A set of doors to what looked like a storage area, was beaming with gorgeous blues, pink and reds. The mixture of peeling paint and oxidized iron made intriguing subjects for my camera!

.bloom.

There have been times, especially here recently, when I have doubted my ability to create, to be "artistic." Photography has been such a big part of who I am that to pursue it further and make something of it is my dream.  But dreams tend to get lost when reality blocks your view, no matter how hard you try to keep your eye on it.  There have been many times when I have been too tired from the daily grind to see beyond just what we see from day to day.  It's like my magical eyeglasses fell off my face and I accidentally stepped on them so all that I see now are the cracks through shattered glass.  Too distracted to see anything else.  

 Alas, I pulled out my camera today and forced myself to find something, ANYTHING to photograph that might tell me that all is not lost.  Lo and behold, a simple flower, lost amongst other floral, weeds and overgrowth (I'm not much of a gardener) stood.   Its face beaming to the sky above, as if no thought of what or who was around.  So content to be.  And so I caught this little flower with my lens and this is the image I have now.  I guess the message I have received today is that with perseverance, one can break through the layers of every day wear and tear, mixed with defeat, doubt, the constant struggle and to just keep on reaching.  Aim, stretch towards your dreams until that one fateful day, when the timing is right and you are finally ready to open up to the world and very simply. . . bloom.