In his book, The Creative Act, Rick Rubin explains that if we try to see everything around us as if it is the first time, the way a child does, then we will see the “extraordinary hidden in the seemingly mundane.” As artists, it is then our task to help others to see the beauty in these things as well.
Watching my daughter see and experience everything for the first time has opened my eyes to the true meaning of what Rubin was saying. When I returned home from the hospital last year, I was emaciated in mind and body. I couldn’t see the beauty in anything. I didn’t want to pick up a camera, because I was afraid all the ugliness and anger I felt would produce equally ugly images.
Then I read this passage by Rubin, especially when he said that accessing childlike spirit in our art and lives is worth aspiring to, and a child has no set premise to rely on to make sense of the world. I realized I needed to start over and try to see the beauty in what was in front of me instead of what was behind me.
As I had to learn how to walk again, and I had to slowly remember how to feel human again, my spirit fought back. My life often just feels so unfair. During that time, I wanted it to be over. I wanted to just be who I was before.


Rubin also said that patience is required for crafting work that resonates what we have to offer, and is developed through acceptance of what is. Being impatient is simply just our way of “arguing with reality.” This is extremely hard to do when coping with a disease. Impatiently, I wanted to be able to eat again, walk again, live again. The emotional pain that comes with a disease is massively overlooked. As unrealistic as it was, I never wanted my daughter to see me sick. I was angry that she would.




But as we all know, life does not care if you’re impatient. It keeps going. So I adapted. I loaded my camera, my Leica M2 that has recorded all my families happy memories for the past 4 years, and simply looked around.
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Being on Prednisone had me waking up at 4am and sitting alone with pain in the dark. So I started forcing myself to get up out of my bed with the sun. I was a fall risk because of how weak I was, so I had to use my walker and cane. I would impatiently stand at my glass door and wait for the sun to rise. Meanwhile, I tried to see the beauty in what I cold find, such as the reflections in the glass, and the early sunlight filtering into our home.






One Year Later
The year mark just passed of the day I came home from the hospital to start over again, and it has been a very slow process of trying to jump back on the train of life.


As time went on, and I just got back into the swing of it again, I improved. It felt good. What started as lonely mornings in the sun, have now progressed to an exercise in patience. I have continued to try to see the simple things in life as if it is my first time seeing them.



Final Thoughts
While these photos are not part of my portfolio or anything I would put in a zine, I wanted to share them along with my experience in case any of you are going through anything similar. I wanted to simply say, keep going.
Until next time, stay motivated and keep shooting.
I HIGHLY recommend the book I mentioned in this article. It has been so inspiring for me as a creative.
Purchase The Creative Act by Rick Rubin
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I notice that most of the time I’m making photographs and am focusing on that, the pain “goes” somewhere else for awhile …
Yes it’s definitely a great distraction. Sending you hugs for your pain too