VDBInFocus Photography

Autumn

The topography of my first name says little about who I am. The mountainous A to begin me drops off markedly into deep canyons, finishing me out among the rolling hills of “m” and “n.” Or does it? Perhaps it is indicative of a strong start, a burst of energy, eager to make my mark, only to free fall into the canyons; yes, not one, but two canyons, the final stretch thrusting me, head first, into the hills.

I will acquiesce only if the hills are gentle.

My mother tells me that it was my father who first uttered my name. He spoke, not of me, but of a friend; the very moment she heard it, she knew it was me.

In the book of Genesis, God spoke and it was. Beginnings are spoken names.

In South Africa, Zulu boys receive a pet name when they are born; a father formally names his son once he is better known, around 7 years of age. Furthermore, a boy’s friends in this culture bestow on him a nickname, much as in our own. I quite like this idea of naming stages--it suggests an impermanence, a sense of variety in our “being”.
Why suggest from the start we are a single varietal?

Topography is not consistent; neither are we.

My name is merely a shawl my parents wrapped around me to begin me. I remove it at will; I cling to it when it is cold.

It is a shiver.

The visible breath on a winter’s day.

c 2012