Comfort Me with Michigan

There is a man. He lives near Lake Michigan. He walks the countryside for a living.

In a bag he carries a camera. He seeks out photo opportunities, he makes them happen.

You can learn this much from watching a photographer at work:

The pictures don’t present themselves; they are hunted down in places both unlikely and expected; they are gauged and framed.

They are made by the eye of the artist.

Depending on his mood, he would agree or disagree. He is lucky, he says, he happens upon the pictures that are already there.

But when you ask about a particular picture, he mentions that he returned to the scene again and again to catch the light right.

Or the composition: I want the moon there he will say. Declining Photoshop, he must wait for the moon to move into place.

He takes care, he positions himself, he waits or is active. When his artist’s eye makes a picture, he snaps it.

***

The shore of Lake Michigan is one long photo opp.

Beaches and forests, sand dunes, rip tides, old hulks and islands out in the waves.

Beneath his feet, sand gives way; rocks tip and wobble.

Often when he is working or when he is not, the stones beneath his feet distract his eye from the job at hand. He walks head down, he stoops.

After 20+ years, he stoops less often than he used to, and he picks up many fewer stones. He has become a collector.

He looks for stone hearts and for stones that have holes worn through them.

It is impossible to say how the water cuts a needle-fine hole through stone. They are a wonder.

He carries them in his camera bag, a pocket, his hat. Once he carried them in an old balloon like a sack.

***

Last November, four of us walked the shore in winter coats and hats. It was warm but cold-windy. The sun, the water, the sky: all zaftig.

For a few hours we wandered together, and then apart, and then together again.

One designer, one filmmaker, one photographer, one writer.

We saw things each in our way; we showed them to one another, compared notes.

There is a picture, four hands holding out treasures: a fossil, green sea glass, a Petoskey stone, a heart-stone.

The photo doesn’t show the hidden treasure.

Back at the house, late at night, after dinner and visitors and music and talk, he pulled out his remarkable find: Two stones—two!—with holes worn through.

These stones express affection, he said. In the kitchen, he cut off two lengths of cord, threaded the stones to make necklaces. He gave one to me.

Tangled up in dark thoughts and dread, I had fled to Michigan for the weekend, to the comfort of dim forest, overcast lake, old friend.

He held the stone in his hand, and his warmth came with the stone when he handed it to me.

***

Michigan does not love me in the way that I sometimes need to be loved. I am grateful for this. He is the keeper of our friendship, he is clearheaded and kind about it.

For more than half our lives, we have come together and apart and together again. Once he drew me a picture: two waves intersecting. If you look at the picture you see this: Wherever they are, the waves are in sync.

I wear the stone necklace when I want to feel Michigan near me. For joy, for strength, just for fun.

I wear the necklace when I need to feel the comfort of Michigan’s presence, the long perspective, the trusthworthy friend.

The warmth remains still.

Today, according to the paper, Chas will be arrainged. Tango Colorado is again in disarray.

I am wearing the necklace right now.