A family from Montana, living in Senegal and adopting a baby from Ethiopia
Monday, May 19, 2008
Photographing a sleeping baby is like photographing a mountain scene as you hike across it on a beautiful day. You get the photograph back and you think, What? Where is the breeze, the sweat in my eyes, the giant rock that felt like the Cheek of God as I leaned against it.
Where is the milk-filled belly rising and falling sweetly in a sleep more quiet and sure than I have been in decades -- all needs met, all worries released, arms flung open, and vulnerable seems not even to be a concept in her wordless mind. And where are the eyelids half-fluttering as I wait to see if she is rested, if they will open, and if she will see me yet again smiling down at her and if she'll flash me her full-faced, knowing smile so that her fat little cheeks squeeze against her eyes and they get all crinkly and cheery. How she is so tiny and yet so wise and sweet and NICE. And if I'll cry again, and probably I will, because she and I and her father and these moments must be the essence of all life.