I study and teach resilience and Positive Psychology at the Positive Psychology Center at UPenn. I ask people in my workshops and classes: What keeps you whole? 

Most mornings I wake up with a quiet anxiety humming in the background. Optimism and happiness are hard won. Sometimes this embarrasses me because I spend most of my professional life talking about well-being and I worry I’m a hypocrite, or bad at putting what I teach into practice. In other moments, I believe I’m better at what I do because I understand what it’s like to struggle.

Because of the pandemic, I had more time to think about the question I ask others, and I found that I couldn’t answer it. I had the unsettling awareness that my life had become monochromatic instead of technicolor. In my commitment to my kids and work, I allowed parts of me to go dormant. 

I called summer 2020 “Summer Fifty-Five” in recognition that it was my fifty-fifth summer, and out of a commitment to dedicate the season to finding the answer to that question. Summer Fifty-Five became a lab for me. I dialed back on work, and started taking walks — around my neighborhood, through Philly, in Cape May. 

I’d walk to Manor Road and watch as they took down the Spanish tiled house. I’d stand behind the bulldozer or crouch next to the dumpster as glass shattered and bricks crumbled, the pile of cinder blocks behind the last stucco wall getting bigger each day. I’d walk to the Japanese garden that is hidden among Oaks and Pines, just a quarter mile from my house. I’d sit on a bench across from a Japanese Maple and watch the rocks and bark turn darker shades of grey and red as the sun started to set. 

I spent weeks in Cape May, and would drink my morning coffee at the edge of the ocean and then walk the beach to the nature reserve. The first few times, I’d have to guess whether it was the yellow or blue trail that ran by the marsh where osprey seemed to walk on water. It took me over a week to find the path that dead-ended at the swamp with beautiful blue-green algae. But by August, I could walk each trail in my mind. I felt at home – unselfconscious and bold – laying on my stomach inches from a tortoise or snake, watching how it moved. I knew where to sit to get a glimpse of a red fox, and where to trespass to see a floor of golden pine needles.  

Places that had been nondescript –a house, a garden, a park – became sources of wonder and awe. 

When I walked, I would listen to music, some that brought back memories from high school, a lot that was new. My pace would match the beat, and my gate would inadvertently adjust to reflect the type of music in my ears. I learned lyrics to songs that would offend some, but filled me with daring. The music helped me trespass; it egged me on, challenging me to hop a fence or duck under brush. I kept a mental playlist of the songs that I could count on to push me past a No Trespassing sign. Lyrics from these songs started showing up in my dreams. My dreams had a soundtrack and that brought me crazy delight.

On other walks, I’d have long talks with my sister or a friend. I’m usually a good listener, and comfortable hearing whatever the other person wants to share. But I tend to be private and feel awkward talking about myself, even when I want to be open. It’s like being on a rope swing, swinging out across the lake, wanting to let go, but always finding myself back on the shore, looking down at the lake, rope still in hand. As summer turned to autumn, that started to change. 

In July, Guy bought me a real camera and lenses. The walks got longer – my camera bag stuffed with protein bars, water, back up batteries, extra clothes. The weight on my back started to feel normal and comforting, and I’d miss it when I left the camera at home. When I walk, camera in hand, I notice things that I otherwise wouldn’t see: rivets on a bridge, graffiti in a tunnel, colors and shapes reflected in windows and puddles. Because of photography, I now kneel to look at layers of green moss on the side of a tree. I hang out at demolition sites, chatting with the guys knocking down walls. I fill with emotion, eyes wet, heart full, as I stand spellbound by starlings flying over brush that line the dunes. The sound of the shutter click is the sexiest sound I know.

Perhaps the most important thing I learned during Summer Fifty-Five is that even when I walk the same road over and over, if I’m patient and observant, I will see something new. When I look through the lens of my camera, I find the spectacular in the ordinary. I’ve learned to trust that there is goodness and beauty everywhere, in the world and in myself.

These photographs are my answer to the question what keeps me whole.