Girl With Horse and Dog

...the grace of a trail and angels

Not long before we were forced to make a decision to leave our previous home, a home that summarized dreams, sweat and tears, my personal saving grace was the trail.

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The trail was an image of love with its blessed lengthy boughs of eucalyptus reaching over the white picket, as if to say, I am here. Free me.

Not indigenous to California, brightly colored finches would find their way to the eucalyptus in spring, while hundreds of other feathered varieties visited year-round. My favorites were the hilarious personalities of the woodpeckers. Our home was built among the trees and from my office I would see the never-ending flirting of what I fondly called the “red yamaka kids.”

The saddest part of living there, besides the ugly neighbors, was to see our community go up in flames, three years after moving in. Ending so much of the chatter from the trees, and all wildlife for that matter, I remember having tears a few years later, upon seeing a baby bunny in my yard.

For all the time I was working and pouring into my photography, the trees, the trails, were the sanctuary of heaven in an intermittent hell. Weaving throughout the foothills, it was most beautiful with its sweeping trees, kissing in an arch, a mysterious curve melting away in the distance.

Intermittent, for I could not absorb the everyday knowledge of abuse and secrets, as our backyard walls and drawstring curtains did their best to keep it away. Then the loud forced knowledge would cast its ugliness over something we held dear, like a treasured family event, house guests, etc. I had to shove all the ill feelings down inside of my stomach until it burned with pain, joy on my face.

Many clients fell in love with our surroundings, making me wonder if for that reason alone my work would become stagnant, lacking imagination. I would teach students the art of “seeing differently” if forced to work in the middle of a baron landscape, so when clients wanted to stand on this heavenly trail, I realized that her beauty would bring out the best of them and, in turn, the best in me.

This was a gift from God, in the shadows of my mind, hoping the ugly man, or the naked man, would not appear to destroy my reputation in such a beautifully visual place. God be with me.

The delicate bow of the eucalyptus, jasmine in spring wildly scattering throughout various forms of ivy and climbing vines, as bougainvillea bloomed most of the year, dusty summers, the gift of fall and winter in ominous mood, amidst the chaos of living between nightmares, was a blessing that still brings so much gratitude to my heart.

It wasn’t until the end when I realized, I couldn’t take living in contrast of God’s beauty, served up in emotional hell, what this little trail, this once quiet grove, had been in my life… all those years.

Fleeing from the wickedness of neighbors barely six months after receiving this painting (pictured above) it became the centerpiece to an art wall I had only dreamed of in our future home. But it was more than that. It was foundation for withstanding my sanity. When I received it I broke down sobbing. I felt alone as if no one lived in my world but me. That’s how parenting is. We often carry far more pain than our kids would ever know about. To them we fought. We fought like exhausted children in adult uniforms. We had it all inside the four walls. Overwhelmingly blessed.

When the outside snuck in we took it out on each other. Could you call that sacrifice or would you be called monsters later on in life? I don’t know. I only know how it felt on the inside and nowhere could I find the manual on how to lead a perfect life.

They say there are angels, watchers among us. I believe they are the artists. The creators, the dreamers, the restless. The ones who’s eyes, ears, hands never stop working above the umbrella of the heavenly gates. The ones who are here among us, alive. But sent, for a reason, into your life.

It was September of 2017 (we would list in June of 2018). I was leaning against the towery rocks of our columned mailbox… my husband’s answer to living on a bend where our strong patina’d mailbox would be hit, on two separate occasions, by speeding drivers. One, the west neighbor’s son with a golf cart. The other, a random car taking with it a tall eucalyptus, which came hammering down, covering our driveway with no way of getting out. The neighbor laughed each time and went about his dog abuse business.

As my head lifted to the winding street below, up was walking a young mom and baby. In 18 years there were no children walking by, rarely a walker. A cyclist might speed out of the hills behind, joyful for what the mountains had bestowed. Many a dog was walked down that trail though, and a few were abandoned, wandering on our street over the years, which is how we received Big Jim. The best boy. There were the horse riders on the trails behind us often continuing down the most beautiful trail of all. Catching a glimpse of them was my absolute favorite.

Winded, she stopped to say hello. I was so happy to see a friendly face. Over the years we truly felt our block was some kind of witness protection plan. She introduced herself as a new neighbor around that bend and said she saw me from her backyard (which butted up to the trail) taking pictures. “Oh I said,” smiling, thinking maybe this was the end of that. I’d never want to intrude or upset anyone living near the trail.

Asking if I’d ever be interested in doing a family shoot, when she could get her parents and siblings together, I responded “I will do it just to get to know you. No charge. I have been longing to meet neighbors, but it’s rather quiet around here.” Happy, her adorable baby girl and she continued on home.

A few months had passed, as I opened up the mailbox to see a note with a phone number asking if it would still be okay. My neighbor’s family were coming to town for Thanksgiving. My family would also be together. My parents would be coming for a few months.

Come to find out her husband was a film maker in India. I asked if he might snap half a dozen pictures of us on the trail, casually, since we had never had a family portrait before. The thought of it was exciting to say the least. Her response was “of course! he doesn’t have his equipment at home though.” I said, “no worries, I’ll hand him mine!”

I gave them the best of me and covered it joyfully, expressing to the children, “if you are very quiet you might catch a glimpse of a dog or a horse coming. You will also hear the birds.”

We received six useable images from our very quick and grateful shoot. Turned out our sweet photographer only used a specific camera and most of the 20 or so shots were out of focus. Those six were an absolute treasure. When our new home was almost finished I would hang them all over the guest room. They all came down in 2021. Estrangement and grief are like that and I couldn’t bare my mom surrounded by what we no longer had in all of it’s painful forms. It was just too much.

By Christmas, I was standing in our driveway, getting fresh air, when I saw my neighbor walking awkwardly up the street towards me. She was carrying something very large, wrapped in thick paper. I met her with a quizzical smile. She said, “I have no idea if you like art, or if you have a particular style… but my dad is a painter. He was listening to you talk to the children and he and mom were so grateful for the pictures, that he wanted to paint something for you as a thank you.” Completely stunned, over-thanking her, she needed to get home.

As she turned away, tears rolling down my face… “it’s you” she said. Me? with my dream of a horse. Did he know? Did he know about my dreams or the most beautiful caged overbred golden retrievers. Like birds who couldn’t fly. No walks, no balls or toys. No love. They served one purpose. The worst kind. Money.

Did he know I had waged a quiet battle over the years? with the city, animal rights groups, etc. and lost.

Holding it on my lap, it was miraculous. All these years. I sobbed. While the dining room after-Christmas board game was rambunctiously taking place…

I surrendered. Threw the cards down.

It would be the following May 2018 that the game was officially over.

God lead us out and into more.

But I’m here now. Looking at the painting.

It’s beautiful.

“Of course,” I said. “I love art.”

James M. Fisher, artist, dad, husband, grandfather and angel.. in purple, last shot, at the end of our shoot. What a treasure. These are just a handful of images and people I was grateful to work with. When I lost my work and my ability to function in 2020, I also realized the “family” God had placed into my life through my career. He is always at work even when you don’t think He is…