Hope and Grainy Photographs

I think I was 14 years old when I set up a darkroom in our home. Specifically, it was in the bathroom that my brother and I shared. Dad had helped me get a piece of countertop cut to fit on top of the bathtub. On that, I could set all that was needed to develop my own black and white photographs.

I would begin by developing the film. I had a canister into which I would transfer the film in total darkness. Then, once transferred, I could turn on the lights and pour in the appropriate chemicals. If I did everything right, the result would be a long strip of negative images, ready to print.

Once that step had been completed, I could turn on the small red light, and begin working on the individual prints. I would place the negative strip into the projector that directed the negative image onto film paper below. It took time, but eventually I got the feel for how long each print needed to be exposed.

Once exposed, the paper was then moved to the first chemical tray. In there the image would begin to magically appear on the sheet. From their, the paper went into a tray filled with chemicals designed to stop the image from developing further. Finally, it was ready for the third tray, where yet another chemical fixed the image in place.

When I first began using my darkroom, I had a lot of hope. I hoped that the pictures I had taken were somewhat decent. That the film would properly develop in the canister. That my chemicals had been lined up in the correct order. I hoped that the investment I had made in my new hobby would prove to have been worth it.

The majority of photos I printed back in those days were little more than grainy images on slick photo paper. I had hoped that their quality would improve over time, and with practice; but they never really did. Instead, they were always the same, less-than-impressive results. Within a couple years, my darkroom equipment was relegated to a cardboard box.

Eventually, that box ended up in the attic of our home. That was the place things went to die. If it was too valuable to throw away, yet no longer of use, it went to the attic. It was a place reserved for things that might be brought down again “some day.”

Looking back, I now can admit to myself and the world that my failures in the darkroom were not the result of any of my equipment. It was all quite capable of making quality prints. The problem was not with the paper or chemicals either. Those were all of the best quality too. No, the true source of my problem was me.

I had been so filled with hope in the beginning. I could just picture myself producing professional quality prints in my darkroom. In those early days, I was brimming with hope. However, manually processing photos like that is both technical and artistic in nature. Both the technical and the artistic sides of processing film were needed. Though I was willing to learn the technical aspects of the hobby, I lacked patience to develop the technique into an art.

Hope is tricky like that. It is easy to begin any venture filled with hope. The challenge comes in having the patience to see my hopes through to fruition; to the point where results actually occur.

“Don’t leave before the miracle happens.” It’s a cliche heard often in the rooms of recovery. Applied to my darkroom, that cliche would sound something like “Don’t put that equipment into a box to be forgotten until you have worked on developing your artistic talents.”

Sometimes it seems that revolving doors should be at the entrance to every Twelve Step meeting. There is a steady flow of people who walk in the door full of hope, only to walk back out the door before long. Their exit sees them devoid of the hope that brought them into the room in the first place.

That was the case for me. In those early days of trying to get clean, any recovery I did have was a grainy image of what recovery should have looked like. I was trying to work a program of recovery that was incomplete. I went through the technical motions; but lacked the patience to allow the artistic, or spiritual part of recovery work.

I had been religious for years; and assumed that I was therefore spiritual. I could not have been more wrong. Developing that spiritual aspect of recovery would require more than hope. It would require time and effort. I would actually have to work through the Twelve Steps with my sponsor if I wanted to experience the spiritual awakening I so badly needed.

Even more, I would have to apply the spiritual principles found in the Twelve Steps. It was not enough to know what they were, or even agree that they were necessary. They had to become a part of me. They were and are, the artistic part of my recovery.

Thankfully, I learned that my hope could only be sustained as I learned to practice spiritual principles in all of my affairs. I had people around me who encouraged me to keep coming back. People who were willing to help me develop the art of my recovery.

Today, my hope continues to be sustained through the practice of spiritual principles. The results of my recovery can still be grainy from time to time; but they grow more crisp and clear with every passing day.

Have a remarkable day!