A monthly reflection series

I’ve always wanted to be good at everything I try… the first time I try it.

If that doesn’t happen, I get frustrated. And more often than I’d like to admit, I give up.

I’ve always thought of myself as a jack of all trades. I don’t expect to be an expert at anything, but I’ve always expected to be at least above average.

Recently, the Lyrid meteor shower passed through.

We were in southeast Utah, in the Valley of the Gods, under some of the darkest skies I’ve seen in a long time.

I was excited just to watch it.

But I thought I might enjoy trying to photograph it too.

I spent time setting up my camera before sunset so I wouldn’t be rushing in the dark. I framed the shot, pointed in the right direction, and set the camera to take a 15-second exposure every second.

I hooked it up to a battery bank so it could run all night.

Everything was ready.

I sat in my chair, waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon.

A large fifth-wheel RV came rumbling down the road.

I didn’t think much of it. It’s a popular scenic route—17 miles long.

A couple minutes later, I watched them back into a spot… Right in the middle of my frame.

That’s my luck.

Out of 17 miles of road, that’s the spot they chose.

I felt the frustration start to build.

But I couldn’t move them.

And I couldn’t move the sky.

I was using a wide lens from far enough away… maybe they wouldn’t even show up in the shot. And if they did, maybe they’d add a little depth.

So I decided—

Let’s do this anyway.

About an hour after sunset, I started my intervals.

Click…
cah-chunk…
Click…
cah-chunk…

I sat there with a hot cup of cocoa, watching the sky.

I saw one large meteor, but it passed just west of where my camera was pointed.

Then a smaller one streaked right through my frame.

Now I was excited.

I knew I was going to get something.

An hour passed.

The sky stayed quiet.

The camera kept working.

Click…
cah-chunk…

Then I noticed something.

It was too quiet.

No click.
No cah-chunk.

The camera had stopped.

The battery died.

It never charged from the battery bank.

I tried another one. Still nothing.

I had to pull the camera off the tripod just to swap batteries.

At that point, it was late. The camera had been off. I hadn’t captured anything significant.

I figured I might as well pack it up.

And I almost did.

Instead, I set an alarm for 3:30 AM—the peak of the shower—and went back to sleep.

When the alarm went off, I got up and set everything up again.

Click…
cah-chunk…

Back to watching the sky.

I didn’t see any big fireballs.

But I saw a handful of smaller meteors.
Half a dozen, maybe.

When I checked the images later, I didn’t have anything that looked like a National Geographic cover.

I didn’t even have a great shot.

But I did have meteors.
Bad ones.
Faint ones.
Barely-there streaks across the sky.

And I wouldn’t have had any of them if I had quit the first time.

What I ended up with wasn’t what I had pictured in my head.

But I got something better.

I proved I could do it.
I learned my equipment.
I understood the limitations.
And I followed through, even when things didn’t go my way.

We all build pictures in our minds of what things are supposed to look like. And when reality doesn’t match, it’s easy to get frustrated.

Easy to quit.

But I’m starting to realize…
If you adjust your expectations,

and just keep moving forward…
things have a way of lining up.