A little less than a year ago, I wrote here about what hawks mean to me. They are a physical reminder of my father's presence in my life, even though he is dead and gone.
I still see hawks almost every single day. Maybe because I live in the Midwestern suburbs, not in the deep city? I like to think that it doesn't matter where I live; hawks would find me regardless.
One thing I really wanted to do is capture a hawk with my camera. I've had that little wish in my heart for a while, but every time I would see a hawk, I'd be camera-less. I started taking my camera with me on days when I'd have time to stop and capture a hawk if our paths crossed (i.e., not when the kids were with me). All of a sudden, I wasn't seeing them as often! Aaargh.
On Christmas Eve, Dan and I were running last minute errands before going to his parents' house for the family festivities. I had my camera with me in preparation for the family event, and we saw a hawk! It was a drizzly day, but I asked Dan to pull over and let me try to capture the hawk. I went tromping through a muddy field and got this shot:
That poor, wet, cold hawk! I couldn't get him to move no matter how many shrieks and noises I made, so I didn't get my wish of a great shot of him with his wings spread wide.
And then this past Wednesday, I got another chance. I saw a hawk in a field, then did a u-turn to go back to him. I only got a few shots before he spooked and flew away.
As a wanna-be photographer, I have a compulsion to want to record things, events and people. I want to capture the moments before they slip away. Capturing the moment makes it feel more real to me, as if giving my poor memory proof that something truly did exist. At face value, my quest for a hawk on film seems straightforward. But what is the underlying drive? Am I trying to capture my dad again, however fleeting he may be? Maybe.
In my quest, I have realized there are some things in life that just can't be captured, and some things that were never meant to be anyway.