Learning to Wait: Photographing the Navajo on Their Time
“Dine’” which is Navajo for “The People” seemed appropriate for the working title of my newest book project, on the Navajo People. This post talks about a Navajo family to turned to ranching in 1978. But more specifically, they raise bulls for the rodeo. In recent years Freddie has begun turning the business over to his two daughters.
I came to northern Arizona to document the Navajo—their history, their traditions, and their way of life. As with nearly every project I have undertaken involving Indigenous cultures, progress comes slowly. Even when relationships have already been established, trust moves at its own pace. This time is no exception.
I arrived with the expectation that I would begin telling the story of an 83-year-old Navajo woman who still tends her sheep every day and lives much as she has for decades: without electricity or running water. Heat comes from a wood stove, but even the firewood must be gathered from the surrounding hills. It is a life that has largely disappeared elsewhere, yet continues here.
As I neared my destination, however, I received word that her daughter—who would serve as my translator—would not be available. Since the woman speaks only Navajo, her story would have to wait.
Fortunately, another opportunity presented itself. I was invited to photograph a local ranching family and told to arrive at two o'clock the following afternoon. Just before leaving, I received another phone call. The youngest daughter was preparing to load three rodeo bulls for transport.
I arrived just in time to witness the loading. While it wasn't an especially dramatic photographic moment, it was fascinating to observe and, more importantly, it opened the possibility of another story within this growing project.
Then, almost immediately after I arrived, plans changed again.
The horses had escaped from the corral.
Finding them and bringing them home became everyone's priority.
While the search continued across the open plains, I spent time talking with the youngest daughter about her role in the family business, one her father had started in 1976. I also made a handful of photographs as the bulls were loaded into the trailer.
Not long afterward, the horses appeared in the distance.
When I saw Freddie walking across the broad Arizona landscape, leading the horses back toward the corral, I knew I was witnessing the photograph I had been hoping for. I started walking toward him, making photographs as he crossed the open country.
Once the horses were safely returned, it seemed the perfect time to sit down with Freddie for an interview.
It wasn't to be.
Another unexpected complication arose, and our conversation would have to wait. Instead, we stood outside together for several minutes, talking informally beneath the Arizona sky. Freddie spoke about ranching, raising rodeo bulls, and his plans to continue doing so even in partial retirement. Before we parted, we made tentative plans to meet again early next week—if he would be heading out to the ranch where he keeps the bulls.
It means extending my stay by several days.
If it happens, it will be time well spent.
This is their world that I have entered—not my world that they have stepped into. Those are two very different realities. Their priorities are not my schedule. Their rhythms are not my deadlines. Forgetting that would not only be insensitive; it would be arrogant.
Good documentary photography requires patience. Great documentary photography requires humility.
I believe in this story. More importantly, I believe in these people.
The Navajo have a story worth telling—not only for themselves, but for those of us on the outside who have much to learn by listening.
— David
Nature Has No Agenda
This morning, as I sat in my well-worn leather recliner, with the Calico cat laying across my left arm, and my right had writing thoughts in my journal - all of this part of my morning ritual when I am not on the road, I came to a stopping point. I sat for a few moments longer;
This morning, I sat in my well-worn leather recliner, a calico cat stretched comfortably across my left arm while my right hand filled another page of my journal. It is part of my morning ritual whenever I am not on the road.
Eventually, I came to a stopping point. The pages of my journal remained open, but my pen rested quietly across them. I sat for a few moments longer, looking out the window. The sun had risen, and patches of blue sky had begun to appear through the dense green canopy of the trees.
My first reaction, almost instinctive, was relief. The violent storms and heavy rains that had swept through the night had either moved on or exhausted themselves somewhere beyond the horizon.
Then my thoughts drifted to another morning several years ago.
I had driven to Florida's Gulf Coast to witness Hurricane Michael firsthand—one of the most powerful hurricanes ever to strike the United States. I wanted to see, firsthand, what a hurricane of that magnitude was truly like.
As I watched the storm unfold, I understood why so many who lived in its path described it as violent. The winds were relentless, the rain blinding, and the sheer power of the storm inspired both fear and awe.
Yet the greatest revelation came not during the hurricane itself, but the following morning.
I had spent the night in Fairhope, Alabama, many miles away from where the hurricane made landfall. As I walked the short distance from my hotel room to the breakfast area, I stopped almost involuntarily.
The sky was an impossibly deep blue. A warm, gentle breeze drifted steadily through the air. Everything felt peaceful.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had been sitting in my Ford Expedition fewer than two hundred miles away, witnessing Hurricane Michael's fury. Now the air was calm, the sky inviting, and the world seemed almost untouched.
It was as though nothing had happened.
Later that morning, I drove toward the areas where the storm had passed. Even there, the skies remained brilliantly clear. As I continued west toward Pensacola, I passed dozens of surfers taking advantage of the larger waves the storm had left behind. Once again, beneath cloudless skies, life was already moving forward.
It was then that I realized something I have never forgotten.
Nature has no agenda.
The hurricane was not angry. It was not seeking revenge. It was not punishing anyone or intentionally destroying anything. It was simply responding to changes within the natural world, rebalancing itself according to forces far older than humanity. It just happened that people and their homes lay in its path.
For much of human history, storms, earthquakes, volcanoes, and floods were believed to be the wrath of angry gods. People offered sacrifices in hopes of calming divine tempers and preventing another catastrophe.
Standing in the aftermath of Hurricane Michael, I saw something entirely different.
Nature was not lashing out.
It was simply being nature.
The trees did not resent the wind. The birds did not curse the rain. The shoreline did not seek revenge against the sea. Everything simply adapted and continued.
Perhaps that is where we differ.
We often assign intention where none exists. We interpret hardship as hostility. We search for someone—or something—to blame. But nature offers another perspective. It reminds us that not every destructive force is driven by malice. Sometimes the world is simply responding to circumstances beyond our control.
This morning, as I sat once again in my recliner, the blue sky returned after another night of storms. It looked much the same as it did that morning in Alabama.
And once again, I was reminded that while nature eventually returns to balance, we humans often carry yesterday's storms far longer than we need to.
In Search of Ann Reeves Jarvis: The Woman Who Believed Compassion Could Heal a Divided Nation
On the outskirts of Grafton, West Virginia, at 284 Pearl Felton Lane, sits an unassuming white frame house that has found its place in history as the house of Ann Reeves Jarvis, and the birthplace of Anna Jarvis - the founder, and creator of Mother’s Day. This tiny house is now a museum dedicated to Anna Jarvis, and the entire Jarvis family. But the museum, the house, and the land surrounding it, is steeped in Civil War history, early Civil Rights, the Underground Railroad, and a history of acceptance, and human rights.
February 8, 2019
Most people know Mother’s Day as a celebration of flowers, cards, and family. Few know that its roots began in a small West Virginia farmhouse with a woman who believed compassion should extend beyond battle lines, political divisions, and social boundaries.
On the outskirts of Grafton, West Virginia, at 284 Pearl Felton Lane, sits an unassuming white frame house that quietly holds one of America’s most remarkable stories. This was the home of Ann Reeves Jarvis—the woman whose life and work inspired her daughter, Anna Jarvis, to create Mother’s Day.
Today, the house is a museum dedicated to the Jarvis family. But the story contained within these walls reaches far beyond the creation of a holiday. It is a story of the Civil War, women’s leadership, early public health, the Underground Railroad, and a lifelong commitment to compassion and human dignity.
Ann Reeves Jarvis was an activist long before Mother’s Day existed. In 1858, while pregnant with her sixth child, she created what became known as the Mother’s Day Work Clubs. These grassroots organizations were formed to improve health and sanitary conditions throughout Taylor County, West Virginia, at a time when disease was one of the leading causes of infant mortality.
The clubs provided education and assistance to families, raised money to purchase medicine, and hired women to help expectant mothers experiencing health problems. Their mission was simple: to reduce suffering and improve the lives of those around them.
When the Civil War began, Ann Reeves Jarvis found herself living in a divided nation. Although she lived in Union territory, she refused to take sides in the conflict. Instead, she urged the Mother’s Day Work Clubs to remain neutral and continue serving those in need—regardless of which uniform they wore.
The Jarvis home stood on land that had been part of one of the largest Union encampments in West Virginia during the war. Union officers used the house for strategic planning, yet within those same walls Ann maintained her belief that compassion should not be limited by political allegiance.
When the Methodist Church considered dividing into northern and southern branches, Ann—a deeply committed Methodist—refused to support the separation. She believed faith and humanity should transcend political divisions.
As the war continued, the mission of the Mother’s Day Work Clubs evolved. Under Ann’s leadership, the clubs provided food, clothing, and assistance to soldiers from both sides of the conflict.
Near the end of the war, the Jarvis family moved several miles away to Grafton, West Virginia. There, Ann continued her work within the Methodist Church and oversaw the construction of Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church, where she taught Sunday School and became known as a respected public speaker.
According to the recollections of her daughter, Anna Jarvis, it was during a Sunday School lesson in 1876 that Ann Reeves Jarvis prayed for someone to create a day honoring mothers.
After her mother’s death, Anna carried that vision forward. In May 1907, she organized a private memorial service honoring her mother. A year later, in 1908, she organized the first official observance of Mother’s Day at Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton.
After years of advocacy, Anna Jarvis succeeded in having Mother’s Day recognized as a national holiday. In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson signed a congressional resolution declaring the second Sunday in May as Mother’s Day and called upon Americans to honor the day by displaying the American flag.
Today, Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church still stands along Main Street in Grafton. It is now recognized as the official Mother’s Day Shrine.
The Anna Reeves Jarvis House offers another window into this remarkable family’s history. A guided tour begins in the kitchen, where beneath a large rope rug is a small door in the floor. According to the museum’s interpretation, this hidden crawlspace was used during the era of slavery as a place of refuge for those seeking freedom through the Underground Railroad.
A crawl Space, hidden beneath the rope rug that covers a large portion of the kitchen floor, in the Anna Reaves Jarvis house.
Throughout the house, artifacts and documents tell the story of the Jarvis family and the world they inhabited. Relics from the Civil War reveal the challenges faced by families living through one of the most divided periods in American history.
Photographs of Union soldiers occupy a section of tis original desk in the Ann Reeves Jarvis house. Also ration tickets, and a newspaper headline adorn the desk.
But perhaps the most unexpected and moving room is found on the second floor.
There, a collection of dolls fills a small room.
These dolls were not owned by the Jarvis family, but each one carries a story. Over the years, curator Olive Ricketts began receiving dolls from people around the world. Some arrived in person. Others came through the mail with handwritten notes attached.
Many were donated after their original owners had passed away, given to the Jarvis House so they would have a meaningful place to continue their lives.
Each doll represents a mother.
Together, they represent the continuing legacy of Ann Reeves Jarvis and Anna Jarvis—the belief that mothers, families, and human connections deserve to be remembered and honored.
A small piece of paper attached to one quilt acknowledges the person who donated it.
A piece of paper, attached to the quilt, gives an acknowledgement to the person who donated it.
It is a simple gesture, but perhaps that is what makes it so meaningful.
Behind every object is a person.
Behind every person is a story.
And that, ultimately, is the true legacy of Mother’s Day.