I woke up this morning and there was the wind. Sometime during the night it had swept through everything, making things right again. The house was quiet - Orest in the garage fixing a bike, Eloise and Julian in their pajamas making water balloons on the front lawn. And I noticed there were things I have looked at but never actually seen. The bushes outside our front door, the house across the street, the palm of my hand.
Last week I felt discouraged that I would never again be able to make a good photograph. It seemed unlikely that there was an original idea left in the world - every story already written and no new songs left to be sung.
And then it was after dinner and I was sorting laundry, Ray LaMontagne playing from a boombox on the dresser and my favorite song came on. Gabriel was crawling through the piles of clean clothes on the bed and I picked him up and we slow danced together around the room. He turned his cheek against my collarbone, I caught a glimpse in the mirror of his little body tucked against mine. And as we swayed back and forth between the closet and the bed I felt the singularity of that moment so acutely. It filled me up, it rushed through me like the wind and touched a thousand different places inside.
And I knew: inspiration was not lost. There will always be a moment that belongs entirely to you. There will always be a new idea. There will always be another picture.