Live Life Wide

My mind.

It always will…

Thirty some odd years ago they took a chance.

Time has erased the irrelevant detail of who moved first.

He accepted her submission with pride and confidence and a little hidden nervousness.

She eagerly submitted to Him with wanton expectant abandon.

He was Her Master and she was His most prized gift.

Together they tried new things, experienced new feelings, and grew closer together.

He looked deep into her soul and she showed Him His.

The passage of time marched its inevitable march forward.

Each grew into a role now familiar; comfortable.

But as their bodies grew frail, their minds - those wonderful minds - looked into each other to continue to grow. To look to challenge. To look to experience. To look to grow together ever closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer to One.

One moment His physical heart failed Him, but she was by His side. She carried Him in his weakest moments.

How could she not? His heart beat for two. Her heart beat in rhythm with His.

That was ten years ago now.

Whatever happened to that power exchange?

He was still her Master. A term now used with such gentleness and affection off her tongue that still threatened to burst His heart with a humble pride.

She was still his most precious gift.

His reason to be the Man He was.

But the collars and cuffs and chains and whips rarely left the drawers these days. Fine presents their ancestors would blushing discover when they were finally resting together in that final peace.

These instruments of youthful lust were still prized possessions.

But their lives had transcended the need for these tools.

The connection that these helped establish was now complete.

One look from old twinkling eyes was all it took to rekindle those old desires.

The photo above?

Last year.

His 80th birthday.

She had invited a few old friends over for dinner.

His gift?

The greatest gift He could ever want.

For once again, she gave herself fully and completely to Him.

Richard Dawkins when asked how he justifies the scientific method.

You lived like Cinderella, lost your holy umbrella, heard Prince Charming’s visceral laughter from the back seat of your best friend’s car.

Through all trials and tribulations, frilly dresses, mirror mirror obsessions, the bitter taste of the men you date, you’ve made it through this far.

London, 1910. On a biting winter morning in Whitechapel, an eight-year-old girl named Eleanor Graves stood each day in front of a bakery window. Her curls were tangled, her fingers raw from the cold, and her patched dress hung loosely over thin limbs. Pressed to her chest was an empty cloth bag—hope wrapped in silence. Behind the glass, golden loaves, warm buns, and jam tarts glistened in the early light. But Eleanor had no pennies. No food. No future. Her father, an Irish laborer, had died in a scaffolding collapse. Her mother worked long hours at the washhouse, scrubbing strangers’ clothes. Yet the deepest ache wasn’t in her belly—it was in the quiet realization that some children were born with everything, while others were born with nothing but hunger.

And so Eleanor made herself a promise. She would learn to read. She would find a way out—not just for herself, but for every child like her. With newspapers scavenged from gutters and alleys, she taught herself letters. A parish priest noticed the curious girl with the fierce eyes and found her a place at the local church school. There, Eleanor discovered a worn anatomy book and fell in love with the idea of healing. She dreamed not of riches or comfort, but of relief—of lifting small bodies out of pain. In 1923, with a scholarship and the stubbornness of the forgotten, she entered university. As a poor girl in a man’s world, she was mocked, ignored, dismissed. But she endured. In 1930, she became a pediatrician, dedicating her life to combating childhood malnutrition.

I always have a full-length mirror next to the camera when I'm doing publicity stills. That way, I know how I look.