Val Muller

A few weeks ago, I was excited that a WWII airplane flyover (the Arsenal of Democracy, celebrating the anniversary of the end of WWII) was schedule to occur right over my house on a Friday. I was all set to go out with my camera, get some great shots, and post a “Fantastic Friday” all about it.

To my surprise, the day before, while I was online teaching from my house, I was distracted by a persistent buzzing. It got louder and louder. In the middle of teaching class, I pressed on…until I saw my husband outside the window, holding my camera to the sky. Then I looked.

Planes in formation, literally right overhead. Not just any planes: WWII planes.

After class, I ran out to try to get some shots. My class ended just as the last few planes were flying overhead. I only got one good close-up. Dismayed, I stayed outside long after the droning sounds had faded.

“Doc,” a B-29 Superfortress, flew right over my house.

“They’re gone,” my husband said several times from inside. I trudged inside, but every time I heard a plane or helicopter, I ran out to see if it might be a plane from the past.

“They’re just ordinary planes, now,” my husband said. His tone tiptoed around my disappointment. I love sky photography, and this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

It turns out, Thursday was the test run for the next day’s actual flight, the one that would follow the Potomac into D.C.. The planes’ holding zone happened to be near my house. The photo I got was decent, but the silver plane against a solid background of clouds makes the image look like an old black and white photo that was taken during the second world war. The photographer in me wanted to see what fluffy white clouds against blue sky would look like reflected in the plane’s shiny silver surface. And, might I be so lucky to catch it reflecting actual trees or grass from my own yard below?

I was determined to get a better shot the next day, during the real event.

I planned a lesson that my students could do independently, and I had my apology speech all prepared for the start of class. Sorry, kids, I like you–but not as much as I like this once-in-a-lifetime chance to photograph working WWII planes. When I hear the buzzing, I’m out!

It turns out, the weather was bad on Friday. The event was postponed until Saturday. I figured I’d save the Fantastic Friday post for the next week. The day didn’t feel so fantastic, but I moved on.

Saturday, the weather was even worse. The event organizers only had permission to use the airspace through Saturday, so the event was cancelled entirely. All that effort. All those planes. All those pilots. For naught. In a month with so few days of clouds and rain, why did the weather choose those three days specifically to be miserable? On social media, the world shared its disappointment. Some people had traveled across states and paid for hotel rooms to be able to see the planes fly. The misery was contagious.

Now, weeks later, flipping through camera footage, I saw the picture of the plane, the B-29 Superfortress, “Doc.” Instead of seeing what was missing–all of the other planes that flew during my class; the blue sky; planes in formation–I saw an amazing shot of a plane from an era before my time.

In flight.

Above my house.

I literally captured the shot feet from my front door.

How amazing is that?

I realized that my negative thoughts came from me focusing on what I didn’t have rather than this amazing thing that I did have. I needed to find that zen acceptance that I could not control the weather, or the time of my classes. But once again, I could control my outlook.

The human mind is amazing. It can imagine all kinds of things that don’t exist. That ability allows our innovation, our accomplishments, our legacies. But uncontrolled, it can also cause our own disappointments.

With only one plane in my arsenal of photographs, I decided to research it a bit more. I found this post from Stars and Stripes. The link referenced in the post, https://www.stripes.com/news/us/vintage-aircraft-set-to-fly-over-dc-to-mark-the-anniversary-of-world-war-ii-s-end-1.646343, contains some amazing photos of “Doc,” the plane I captured, both interior and exterior.

How amazing that I only got to capture one plane so that I would be inspired to research its history and read accounts of so many who served during WWII, who helped to build planes like “Doc,” and who never imagined they’d be restored from a desert after decommission to the renewed interest of the nation.

Sometimes, the zen of a quiet mind is all that’s needed to see the amazing opportunity not in what is out of our reach, but in what is right in front of us.

One of my favorite novels is Ray Bradybury’s Dandelion Wine. In the novel, the main character has an epiphany that he is alive. I have written about this in my blog several times over the years. I know it sounds simple: yes, if you are reading this, you are alive.

But do you really truly realize you are alive?

The other day, two very strange occurrences startled me out of the routine of my life. First, driving home, a large branch fell within feet of a pickup truck two cars ahead of me. The branch fell across the entire roadway. The pickup truck drove by unscathed: I’m not sure the driver even realized the branch had fallen. It wasn’t windy, stormy, rainy, or anything. The branch spontaneously fell. The car behind the pickup truck and the driver two cars in front of me cleared the branch from the roadway—it wasn’t too heavy, and it probably would have caused only minor damage to the truck.

But I thought it odd that a branch should fall without provocation. And how odd that the truck missed it by possibly a fraction of a second. If it had been a novel instead of real life, I would have made a note that the branch was some kind of foreshadowing—an omen.

But it wasn’t a novel, so I drove home only a bit startled by the occurrence. I guess the message from the universe wasn’t blunt enough for me. I had more in store…

Later, I had to head out for a mascot reveal event I was supposed to take pictures of. I was headed out, camera around my neck, when I realized I should grab my extra camera battery just in case. I turned and walked back to my room to grab the battery—an action that took all of two seconds.

Then I hurried out to the garage, started the car, and headed off. I looked at the clock. It was 7:59. I had wanted to leave before 8 that evening, and I was irked as the clock changed to 8:00 as I pulled onto the road, as if it were mocking me. It’s crazy—with kids, you can never leave on time, but at least I was less than a minute late.

A storm had come through earlier—after the tree branch almost hit the truck, and after I’d safely arrived home and eaten dinner. The storm had cleared about an hour ago, and the air was still and cool.

I had gotten about 1/8 mile from my house when I heard a fantastic crackling sound breaking the stillness of the evening (I had my window down). I looked up.

The road leading to my house is lined with trees—very tall, towering deciduous trees. When I first moved here, I loved it. It felt like entering a magical tree tunnel that was somehow removed from the real world. In an instant, that magic became a liability.

Just ahead of me, a huge piece of tree (part of the trunk? A thick branch? I couldn’t tell) had cracked from the base of its trunk and was tumbling to the ground from high above. I slammed on the brakes and came to a stop with the branch blocking the entire roadway about two meters from my car.

I entered that mode where your body does things while your mind tries to catch up. My body had thrown the car in reverse, sending thoughts to me about other trees or branches possibly coming down in a domino effect. Get out of there, my body screamed.

My eyes were already looking in the rear-view mirror while backing up. Around the bend of the road behind me, a car sped toward me. My body braked again and threw the car into drive, conducting a three-point turn in record time. I realized my body had put the hazard lights on, too. Good job, panic mode! By the time I pulled into my driveway and turned off my hazards, my mind caught up. My hands were shaking.

I sat in my car for a while. Sent a quick email about missing the photo opp. Pondered the chances of that happening, of whatever specific elements of the laws of physics had to line up to send that tree spontaneously down as I was coming by. And the chance of it happening in a way that left me unscathed—physically.

Then I wondered if I should have tried to move the branch/trunk or called someone about it. Realized several of the cars arriving were probably doing so already.

I went in and hugged my family. I was shaken for at least a day. I tried to imagine what my life may have been like if I had left home two seconds earlier. The branch/trunk looked sizeable. Would my car have been crushed? Would I be swimming in paperwork and trips to auto detailers? Would I be car shopping with a totaled engine? Would I be at a hospital?

Would I even be alive?

The next day was filled with frantic preparations for the first day of distance learning in my district. Did I have my lessons posted? Was my camera, microphone in order? Were all the share settings right? Did I know how to take attendance? Had I sent all the introductory emails? There was no time to reflect on my personal life. Teachers seemed to be worrying about new policies and technology glitches, but those problems now seemed so distanced to me.

I had strange dreams that night that I cannot remember.

When I woke, the sun shone brightly. Everything seemed fresh and new. I took a walk to the place the branch had fallen to see how thick it was. Whether my mind made a bigger deal than it was.

Here is what was left 48 hours after it happened.

I’m pretty sure this would have done significant damage to me or my car, falling from the height of a four-story building.

When I came home from the walk, I continued cleaning out the office space I’ll be using for virtual teaching. Just a week ago, I thought about the daunting task of clearing the office space as something I had to do. Now, I saw it as something I get to do.

I found some CDs (if you are not old, CDs are a prehistoric way we used to play music ? ) that I hadn’t listened to in years. They Might Be Giants. Cake. I listened to them as I cleaned. Really listened. Heard the texture of the instruments, the nuances in the voices, the tone. They brought back memories. Why had I forgotten about them?

So much of my identity was shoved into the lowest strata of my life for what? Making sure my online course looks perfect? Making sure I can keep up with the ever-changing dictates of a district run by people who haven’t taught in a classroom in years? Trying to make my house look as clean as they do in magazines? (Does anyone even live that way?) Why had I thought that listening to music that made me happy was no longer a relevant thing in life?

I had become a data-inputter, a cook, a diaper changer, a dog walker, a trash-taker-outer, a dish washer. I was a robot. Robots do not need music or joy. They just have an unending list of things that need to be accomplished.

Here is the protagonist’s epiphany in Dandelion Wine:

“The grass whispered under his body. He put his arm down, feeling the sheath of fuzz on it, and, far away, below, his toes creaking in his shoes. The wind sighed over his shelled ears. The world slipped bright over the glassy round of his eyeballs like images sparked in a crystal sphere. Flowers were sun and fiery spots of sky strewn through the woodland. Birds flickered like skipped stones across the vast inverted pond of heaven. His breath raked over his teeth, going in ice, coming out fire. Insects shocked the air with electric clearness. Ten thousand individual hairs grew a millionth of an inch on his head. He heard the twin hearts beating in each ear, the third heart beating in his throat, the two hearts throbbing his wrists, the real heart pounding his chest. The million pores on his body opened. I’m really alive! he thought. I never knew it before, or if I did I don’t remember!”

That last part “If I did I don’t remember” rings true for me.

We get into ruts, routines, that make us more robot than human. When we are literally a cog in a machine, when we do things mechanically without caring, we need a reminder. The tasks in our lives are not things we have to do; they are things we get to do.

It’s easy to get bogged down by the pandemic, the economic hit, the mundane tasks of life that seem unending. I guess sometimes we just need to almost get hit by two consecutive branches falling randomly from above to remind us what a privilege it is to be alive, to put everything–even a cluttered office space–into crystal clarity.

Thanks, universe. And happy weekend.

At the beginning of July, when I heard that conditions would be ideal to view the recently-discovered Neowise comet, I smiled inside. I have a bad track record of viewing cosmic events, and this sounded like my chance.

When I was very small, my parents took me to see Hailey’s comet. I remember we drove somewhere cold—a school with a hill. It was dark. My dad painstakingly set up the telescope. I remember my dad telling me to look through, him telling me not to bump the telescope. I don’t really remember seeing anything in the telescope—I may have been too young—but I do remember the smell of the telescope and the taste of the hot chocolate we had from a thermos afterwards. While I can’t say 100% that I consciously saw Hailey’s comet, I can say that it somehow passed through my eyes, and the experience impressed itself upon me. There were other families there on that hill, at what seemed to a tiny kid to be the middle of the night. This comet was something important enough to disrupt ordinary life, and it brought people together.

Many times over the course of my life, I set alarms to try to see one cosmic event or another, but it’s been hard to find people willing to stay up that late/get up in the middle of the night/wake up that early to share the experience. And usually cloud cover foiled my plans, and I spent the next day tired and wondering why I got out of bed in the middle of the night at all. I remember years ago leaving the warmth of my then-townhome, shivering in the driveway while not being able to see whatever it was I was trying to find, and jealously calculating how many neighbors were blissfully sleeping through the cold night.

The only exception had been the somewhat recent solar eclipse, which I was able to see with a bunch of coworkers in the middle of the day. That solar eclipse was really the first “conscious” time I truly experienced a cosmic event without cloud cover and with the company of others. The fact that we were all there together, watching this thing that was larger than all of us, really created a sense of community. It’s a memory that’s burned into my soul, all of us taking a break from work to don our solar glasses and look at the strange patterns of the sun filtering through the trees in little crescents.

The possibility of seeing Neowise called to me, despite being stuck in a pandemic more or less in social isolation. For Neowise, I set my alarm for 4 a.m., which is when the comet was first visible. I couldn’t see it very well with my naked eye. I saw a streak in the sky, but the sunrise was already starting to wash it out. I pointed my camera at what I thought was the comet, and I was amazed at what appeared on the viewfinder. The adrenaline rush told me there would be no falling back to sleep that morning.

Neowise, captured before sunrise in early July 2020.

Neowise appeared just above the treeline.

Soon, the comet would be visible in the evening, and I used the interim to watch some videos to learn about night photography with my DSLR. The absence of the moon paired with cloudless skies made conditions optimal, and I found ways of playing with exposure and other settings to make up for the lens on my DSLR, which is not meant for night shots.

As I posted and emailed the shots to friends and family, the response was amazing. I received texts late each evening with questions about where and how to find the comet, and I remembered the sense of unity I felt during the solar eclipse, even though the people contacting me were all socially isolating.

Neowise after sunset on July 17, 2020.

Those whose views were blocked by trees or houses thanked me for posting or sending pictures. People sent me articles with tips about how to best view the comet. Friends texted me late at night with pictures of their own comet quests—friends who would have absolutely no other reason to contact me at that hour. Virtual conversations ensued with friends I hadn’t seen in years over photography tips and camera equipment purchases.

Neowise on July 18, 2020. My photography skills increased as Neowise faded.

Neowise on July 18, 2020. One of my favorite shots, with the Big Dipper visible.

I went out each night that the sky was visible to view that comet. The world felt different somehow. Something amazing was happening as I was isolated in my backyard, and I felt like part of something much larger and more significant. The perspective was much needed during a time of global uncertainty.

Neowise the evening of July 19, 2020. My favorite shot!

After nights of rain, I resumed pictures on July 25. Neowise’s glory had faded. Can you spot the comet toward the bottom of the picture?

My interest in the comet prompted my husband to take out his dad’s old telescope, which prompted my daughter to take an interest in the stars and moon. It was a needed distraction and a needed nod from the universe that not everything had come to a standstill. There are still amazing things out there, and Neowise was a reminder that positivity spreads. I’m always glad to be a part of helping it to do so.

By July 26, the comet was barely visible. But my photography skills had improved enough to capture it!

July 27 was the last night that cloud cover did not fully impede the sky. Because of the waxing moon rising earlier, Neowise was also washed out by the moon’s brilliance.

Luckily for me, that meant another object in the sky to practice my photography skills on 🙂