Selador

Anxiously, tossing and turning beneath my bed covers. While the light from a lamp post on the cul-de-sac shamelessly radiated through my window. This was one of the few nights I wished there were blinds on the window or curtains. To my left emanated a minuscule blinking light. Rolling toward the light on my bedside table, it signaled, in softly lit green numbers, 1:45 am. “Only one forty-five” I huffed rolling to my back. Could time move any slower?

Just the previous evening, I made up my mind to take a photography expedition, at first light, to capture the beauty of the morning. A quick search revealed the sun was to rise at six-thirty in the morning. It was decidedly simple enough; not too early, not too late. Little did I realize, the torment I would be in was near unbearable as I excitedly awaited my five-fifty alarm. Turning over every half hour just to be reminded of the consistency of passing time; it’s so precise, so slow.

The evenings are warm and slightly mucky. Insolation defects on my windowsill allowed for the uncomfortably sticky air to seep through till my room was humid and quite warm. Part of me just wanted to get up so I could escape the dreadful atmosphere, but the majority of my mind was set on the places I would go to photograph.

2:50 am “Three more hours. So close.” I whispered as if someone were awaiting this adventure with me. I wrestled attempting to force myself to sleep. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t keep my eyes closed for more than forty-five minutes at the most. 3:30 am. 4 am. 4:25 am. 4:55 am. By the time five-twenty rolled around, I couldn’t contain myself any longer! Jumping out of bed overflowing with enthusiasm for the small escapade ahead, my soul couldn’t wait for it to become reality. Impatiently, I paced the bedroom floor listening for an alarm to signal the start of the imminent journey.

Finally, I heard, softly at first, the sweet sound of a lilting melody bringing an unfamiliar sense of relief and inner peace. 5:50 am. It had arrived, and not a moment too soon. I hastened to shut off the alarm, grab a lightweight coat and my phone before leaving the room. Leading myself through a dark house to the front door, I made a point to tread lightly as not to wake anyone from their slumber, which was most assuredly more peaceful than mine had been. Down the flight of stairs, to the left, and out the door, I went quietly as could be.

Once out of the house, my hands immediately slipped the phone out of my left pocket and began photographing the deep blue sky set behind a tree in the front lawn. The sun had not yet risen. However, the lack of sunlight has never stopped the start of the day for corporate America. Small groups of cars raced down the highway adjacent to the left corner of the backyard. Standing before the house with the driveway to my right, I gazed out across the cul-de-sac. The air was humid but cool.

A thick fog moved gently over the streets of the neighborhood. A scene that would perhaps cause a sense of eeriness on any typical day; no matter the direction, the fog rested just inches from the ground up to the tops of trees. I’ve always been intrigued by fog, so mysterious. It reminds me of dramatic movie scenes. Were it not for my excitement, I would have reconsidered the coyotes or wolves that may have been lurking nearby.

After spending some time in the front lawn, the decision was made to venture to the back and follow the cul-de-sac that leads to the middle school about five blocks to the north. Up the street, my view was obscured by the fog, but I knew the road led to a small firehouse. I kept my steps to the left of the road lacking a sidewalk to travel on. No more than six steps ahead, fog rose from a drainage vent. The look was something like a pale comparison to photos of New York or Detroit. I stopped to capture the image, but the fog was too light, or my camera too poor to capture a suitable image. Slightly unsatisfied, I moved along; it was a small loss.

Arriving at the street across from the middle school’s baseball fields, I waited patiently till the evenly spaced traffic made way for crossing. I stood there in a red, green, yellow nit-hat, a black military-style jacket, maroon pants, and a grey bro-tank decorated by an ocean blue scarf with white dotted accents. It was just about as artistic as I’ve ever felt in clothes. A few drivers nodded their hellos as they passed. Mostly those in their mid-twenties or early thirties; the older drivers seem rather uncontent with the weather. The walk took all of fifteen minutes to get from home to the field. Thought, I did stop here and there to capture some moments. The heavy fog dissipated over the next forty-five minutes.

6:13 am. Being that the sun wasn’t to rise for another seventeen minutes, I took my time finding intriguing angles. My eyes searched the landscape imagining how the light will hit once it finds its way over the grove west of me. The baseball diamond proved to be a unique space with several potentials. The backstops had webbing decorating small portions of the gate. Drawing closer allowed my eyes to take in the morning dew hanging gently from the suspended webs. Each little droplet reminded me of the bulbs slung across the face of houses during a calm evening in the midst of a cheerful Christmas season.

6:30 am. Looking to the east, the sun was not yet in sight. The air had warmed slightly, the humidity lessened, and the deep blue of early morning was receding like a shade being drawn back slowly as sunrise approached. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it, the crux of my photography expedition was here. A thrill shuddered over my skin as my senses awakened to the moment. Spreading my jacket on the ground, I lay atop to keep my shirt dry of the dew-covered grass. Slowly, the sun peeked over the roof of the middle school. While rays of light beamed through branches and over the treetops, the fog drifted wistfully above the ground. There, I captured the majestic red and yellow, which seemed to set aflame the deep green vegetation in the distance. One moment caught the fog looming above the school as the sunlight broke through. It seemed to signal the cusp of a tilting balance on the eternal battlefield where day meets night. A smile crossed my face; it was bliss.

I took numerous photos of the sun rising over the school and baseball field. While making my way toward home, a patch of dandelions caught my eye. I stopped, crouched low, and positioned the camera. In focus were three dandelions sprouting. They nearly seemed to join at the root. Behind the elegant white-headed weeds sat a busy road. The horizon was marked by a wooded grove, which crowned the small slop where road meets sky. The sun sat perfectly behind the largest of the three dandelions casting a halo effect around the dew-covered seeds. Between the left most stem and the center stem, a spider had spun two small lines that hung slack with crystal-like droplets speckling the bridge. I pressed the camera’s capture button four times. Looking at the image on the screen, I was exhilarated to share my discovery with the world!

I made it halfway home before realizing…something was wrong. The phone screen was frozen. Logic assured me that the phone froze after capturing such an exquisite moment in time. Breath left me helplessly gasping. “This can’t happen!” Holding down the power button; nothing happened. Standing frantic and flustered on the sidewalk, I turned the phone over and opened the back. Reaching for the battery, there was hesitation, but not enough to decide on another course of action; I slowly slid it out of the phone. As my heart rate quickened, I fumbled to get the battery reposition and turned the phone on. “Come on, come on, come on!” My patients lost. I needed to know if the photo was still there. I needed to know for sure. I needed to know now.

The screen opened white. An icon appeared in the middle. The home screen! “Okay, photos.” Opening the files, I see numerous shots of the schoolyard and baseball field, but no dandelions! “No, NO…that didn’t just happen!” I said to myself while rushing back to the spot where the photo was taken…too late. The sun was now clear over the trees. The fog, completely gone as well as the dew. I lost a once-in-a-lifetime photograph to the faults of technology. To say my heart was crushed would be to compare the woes of a bee’s sting to that of the grief felt by wartorn countries. They simply do not compare.

Months later, I told this story to a friend of many years. At a small coffee shop in the heart of Rosemount, I sat across the table from her exasperated from the memory. She smiled looking at me and said, “Perhaps it was meant just for you. A friend of mine and I realized the English language doesn’t have a word for such tragic experiences. So, we made one, selador. When something makes you appreciate something else, either because of its presence or lack thereof. The descriptor of that thing would be Seladorious. For instance, ‘I was overcome with selador after I walked away from that car accident.’"

And so my friend, we are left hanging on seladorious events all our lives. No artist can ever capture the natural beauty of this earth; how hard we try matters not. I first wrote these words in January of 2015; I revisit them now in March of 2021. Every situation has something to be learned or an opportunity to reshape our perspective. Even this very evening, I have been made aware of a whole new view that can be taken from these moments of excitement, expectation, discovery, and grief. The exposition of which, I will not develop here. Though I have experienced much since this event in my life, I cling to the beauty my eyes were preview to on that seladorious morning those years ago.