The photo below was taken as part of a project called Revealed.  Revealed is a unique photo project from East Greenwich, RI photographer Scott Indermaur.  Scott describes the process as “presenting subjects with a small wooden box and asking them in advance of the photography session to bring items that represent their spiritual experience in which to fill the space. The concept of identity and the awareness of a higher existence quickly evolve into a vessel of self-exploration and quiet confession.”

I became a Revealed subject after writing an essay for Rhode Island Public Radio’s This I Believe Rhode Island.  The essay explored my belief in my mother’s face, her patient easy guidance as I grew up with type 1 diabetes, and the idea that life is really about what you make of the most challenging moments, the most challenging pieces.

In thinking about what I would put in my box, among other things, I considered how diabetes has informed my “spiritual experience.”  And, it has, in some ways.  Having diabetes, or any chronic condition, is a daily test of faith.  A test, I’m afraid, if graded by the faithful, I’d fail over and over again.  A good friend recently reminded me, with something he wrote, of a truth that it is easy to forget.  That truth is that sometimes, in life, when faith in god is unavailable to us – for whatever reason - we must have faith in people.  Faith in ourselves.   We must remember that we are miraculous, in our ability to get up every day and choose the right things, when the wrong things are easier – to excel, when people say we can’t or won’t – to be strong in the face of persistent obstacles.

I determined early on that diabetes-related paraphernalia would not make it to my box.  No test kits, no syringes, or insulin bottles, or anything remotely medical.

Instead, I chose a comp book, like the kind I’ve poured my heart into.  The kind I’ve confessed to.  The kind I’ve cried onto.  The kind I’ve doodled in when words just don’t come.  The kind I’ve used since I was six and first started writing.

I chose a photo of my mother and a photo of my nephew – representations of my beginnings and my future.  Representations of the constant present of my family life.  Reminders of the blood that fuels me and the faces that light up my heart, and the people I have the most faith in.

I chose a yellow rose, the favorite flower of my mother’s late mother.  And a ring given to me by my father.  Two people who encouraged my questions, about everything, including god and the Bible when I was a child.  Two people who saw in me potential and encouraged that potential.

I chose the first adult book I was ever given, Little Women.  Presented by my Aunt Kaye when I was seven, it informed much of my adolescence,  provided me with heroes, and took me to a place I’d never visited but one to which I could relate.  It taught me that reading would make me stronger, smarter, better and it fostered my love of words.

I chose a CD, remembering how many times music provided comfort when nothing and no one else could.  Remembering how, still today, when I’m edging toward tired, depressed, and lonely, favorite lyrics or melodies can coax me back out of darkness.

I also decided to light it all with a candle.  Because, for me, fire has always represented beauty perfectly mixed with strength.   Something I think I strive for, fierce gentility; intense understanding.

I could have picked a thousand other things.  I could have filled five boxes.  But I narrowed it to these items.  

And then I went back to diabetes.  And wondered if somehow, I should have it there, in my box.  But if just felt wrong to put it there.  Because, although I believe that diabetes has impacted my person, I think that those things that have informed my spiritual existence, like the things above, are about as far from diabetes as can be.   And I believe that diabetes impacts in my life are secondary to my reactions and responses to them.  I haven’t let diabetes become a specter.  I haven’t let it eat away at my heart and soul.  And I’ve done my best to not let it have its way with my body.  

That line of thought brought me somewhere, though.  It isn’t that diabetes isn’t there – or isn’t a part of me.  It’s that I don’t identify it has having shaped any piece of my spiritual being. 

However, what has played a part in that shaping, is the maintenance of balance required with chronic disease.  The constant struggle to have a life that allows for awareness of diabetes, without it polluting those pieces of me that are really at the core of who I am.  What has shaped my spiritual experience, in many ways, is learning and navigating the challenges this disease presents and learning about myself in my reactions to those challenges.      

So I talked with Scott, and I asked about showing my insulin pump in the photos in the hand opposite the box.  His response was that we could do whatever I wanted.

Scott’s process for the taking of the photos is interesting.  You are essentially in a completely dark room, lit only by whatever you might have in your box and flashlights.  And you are alone with whatever it is you’ve chosen to represent you.  It is extraordinary, and it is intense.  

At first, I started with the box of self in one hand held higher than the pump.  But that didn’t feel right.  And then I lifted the pump, and that didn’t feel right either.  In the end, I landed with the two just about perfectly balanced.  

I was also surprised at how I felt during the session.    I was thinking through the challenges of balance, and wondering if, in the case of managing diabetes and weighing it against one’s spiritual existence, a perfect balance isn’t exactly perfect.  I struggled.  And in reviewing the photos with Scott after the session, the struggle showed.  

Which I guess is just right; because balance is like that.  It is difficult to achieve, even more difficult to maintain and even when you think you’ve got it right you’ll likely have to shift again.  

In the end, the photo came out just perfect.  I look not exactly upset or sad or angry – but focused and intent.   Just the way I live my life.  Balancing pieces of self whose measures consistently shift and change.   

I suppose it’s no different from any other life, but this balance in a life with diabetes, is certainly more obvious to the human eye, and more easily captured in a photo.