What is Love?

Hanging with death for Valentines Day Weekend

All of my life, I’ve been obsessed with the question,

What is love?

When I was 29, I left my marriage and the faith I was born into, to live my life and art as an attempt to answer.

Five years following my divorce, in 2017, I even started a podcast called the Love Love Love. Each episode was meant to ask the question:

What is Love?

I wanted all kinds of love stories to provide all kinds of answers.

My first interview? My ex husband. That poorly produced, perfectly raw episode sparked something in the collective. It brought me more email than I’ve ever received. Praise and resonance. Projection and judgement.

My ex husband’s kind, sweet voice paired with my seemingly ruthless need to devote to my truth and claim my desire + freedom both moved and triggered the shit out of people.

I don’t blame them. It triggered me too. I broke out in a full body rash the same day of the interview. My rash lasted for months.

This podcast mysteriously brought me many photo clients. One of them I met for the first time last Friday.

Let me rewind—-

I promised I would post here every Friday.

But last Friday, I did not.

It was the Friday before Valentine’s Day.

It was the final Friday of the year of the snake.

And instead of writing here—-

Instead of planning some kind of Romantic date (with who?), or cozy night in, or ‘galentines,’ (even I cringe at the word valentines) I found myself driving to photograph a family living intimately with death.

The thing about living with death as the unnamed, invisible, yet ever-present member of your family, is that it has potential to make you more alive than you’ve ever been.

That is, if you choose to encounter and welcome death directly rather than fight or deny it.

Which this family —stripped down as they were by their reality — standing so starkly naked as their soul selves that they may as well have not been wearing clothes either— absolutely were.

They were stunning. The atmosphere of their home was strange for Utah culture - it seemed immune to shame, perfectionism and performance of any kind.

On their kitchen counter was a huge, colorful bouquet of flowers. On their kitchen table, another.

I was told one of the bouquets was for me. I clutched my heart.

Shouldn’t I be the one offering flowers? I thought.

To call this family ‘authentic,’ doesn’t do them justice.

What they were was surrendered to death. And while they were not unmarked by its terror and heaviness, neither were they afraid.

A few weeks prior, the mother of the family had emailed about a session. She told me her 13 year old son had a terminal cancer diagnosis. She wanted one last photo of her family with all four of their children—together. She knew I was the one to do it.

In her email, she shared that she’d done a ceremony in which her son’s soul asked her to be his death doula. She accepted. She also asked to know what it was like to die. What she experienced as an answer is her story to tell, but I can tell you that she was shown there was nothing to fear. She was told that is exactly what she must keep showing her son over and over:

Death is nothing to be afraid of.

This Mama was doing her job. I watched her in awe. Soothing coughs, offering popsicles, making bouquets of flowers, laying down for cuddles. It all sounds mundane, but I could see her moving on the front lines between life and death - hovering in the liminal space between worlds - letting what most would find unbearable make her an even more present and true version of herself.

Dad was no slouch either. Steady in his body. Emotionally available to his wife and children. Simple, direct and true.

“Is this what it’s like to be around a grounded masculine?” I joked.

He blushed. I clicked the camera shutter as quick as I could.

I couldn’t look at his face without laughing. There was so much glimmer there. A sense of play and tenderness not even death could touch. Or maybe death had. Maybe death teased and he teased right back.

I noticed he had the graceful hands of an artist but I didn’t say so. Just smiled to myself quietly when they told me later he was a potter.

They also told me they went back lifetimes. When they laughed together, I believed them.

After we finished making photos, I asked if it was okay to stay and talk awhile. I had about 7,000 questions, and maybe even more compliments to give.

At some point, my old podcast came up, and that’s when we realized I was practically interviewing them. Collecting their love story along with their tales of woe. Finding out what they were made of, and trying to trace how they’d figured out how to use every dark bit of it to shine their truth.

I should have brought my recording equipment.

They sent me home with the flowers AND chocolate.

I didn’t even have to ask them my trademark question.

“What is love?”

Obviously, they’d already shown me.

So I REALLY hope I didn’t blow the photos.

I kid. I kid.

You hear me death?

I made you look good.

See you again on Friday,

Yan

P.S. Been trying for some years to “manifest,” an investor who wants to pay me to bring back the Love Love Love podcast plus hire a production and marketing team. Too tall an order you say? I mean, maybe, but why not? Send any leads my way.