In my early teens, I was once given a film camera as a gift. On receiving it, I jumped on my bike, headed to Wimbledon Common and took photos, just for me: photos of trees and wildlife. I was out all day. On my way home I spotted a tree lit up by street lighting and tried to capture its beauty. Rushing home, I put the spent film in a special little envelope and sent it off to a photography store, desperate to see how it would come out. I took many photos then and loved the fact that when you processed your film you got back colour photos which froze the precious moments, gently encouraging the hobby and the payments for processing.
As I grew into adulthood, that simple, deep happiness gradually faded away. One weekend when I was busy answering the work calls, my eyes caught a box in the corner of the room. I suddenly felt a sense of sadness. The stress growing over these years had pushed the camera from beside my pillow to the box in the corner. I thought I needed a change.
I took out the camera and dusted it down. It was a great joy that it still worked. I bought new film and took the camera everywhere I went. Now it is always on hand to accompany me on journeys, to allow me time to myself. Even if the day is full and busy, I can seize some moments for myself to take photos, to observe the world around me.
The wall of my room now holds all my camera equipment on display, along with photos I've taken. To me, the room represents how I've found happiness: by reconnecting to the younger part of myself I laid aside, by allowing room in my life for pleasure to exist, and by creating an environment that allows opportunities for delight.
