I wish I really knew how to use my macro lens. I lie down, inch forward, squirm back, squinch, lean, hunch, stand, sit, set and reset every option, study the light and shadow and foliage, tinker, and still . . . nothing I take pleases me. Breathe, I remind myself; relax, I repeat; remember -- it took more than a year to figure out a different camera and lens.
But the year unfolds now, always now, and still now, never waiting for me to catch up.
I imagine gliding like this, along the surface of water or deep in sleep, easy and peaceful, seeing things up close as never before or far away as never before, and then I remember my aching back, the nightly heating pad and fitful turning, one cat or another moving to take up new space, sometimes on that same pad where they glide effortlessly into sleep.