Photography as Spiritual Practice
Ripples (Part 1)
Guest Writer: Eve Turek
“Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near.”—Phil. 4:5 (NRSV)
I love to watch and photograph ripples on still water. I think about stones or pebbles tossed into a pond or a lake and the effect that action has as the energy of the impact mushrooms outward. Usually, the ripples I see have been made by birds—ducks paddling or Great Blue Herons suddenly striking through the water’s surface in hopes of nabbing a meal after many long minutes of patient waiting or stalking.
Both the pebble and the birds seem to speak of purposeful and forceful action and its effect.
But one November afternoon, I stood at the edge of a small pond in a maritime forest. Autumn comes late to my North Carolina barrier island home, and I had gone out searching for signs of fall. The maritime forest contains hardwoods not found generally in the region and usually shows the most color when the leaves do turn. But, this particular afternoon, what caught my heart was this moment of a leaf’s letting go. As it rested on the surface of the water, ripples began to spread outward. Who could imagine that a single leaf floating through the air to kiss the surface of the water would barely create any ripples at all?
I have thought about this image often in the years since. It speaks to me of the powerful possibilities of gentleness. The leaf seems to say a life-legacy of gentleness and love can have the same effect as the more flashy and splashy tossing of a large pebble. I need to remember this. I need to remember as well that the leaf offered this lesson as a last great act, as the last chapter offering one leaf among many on the tree growing at the water’s edge, one season’s long growth coming to its appointed end.
We live surrounded by the flashy and splashy. Worse, I sometimes succumb to the notion that only the flashy and splashy “counts.” Only the loudest voice in the room will be heard. Only the most insistent will advance. Those thoughts don’t usually prompt me to turn up my own volume; instead, they feed discouragement, as if small acts, quiet words, and a gentle touch are somehow less-than and hopelessly naive. Those thoughts tempt me not to shout but to stop speaking altogether.
Then I remember this leaf.
One of my favorite quotes is misattributed to Mother Theresa. I wish I knew who said it so that I could give proper credit. Perhaps some of its power lies in its very anonymity: “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.”
Eve Turek