I’m not sure what stirred the desire to photograph crosses in my neighborhood, but one day, when I was looking at things differently, I heard the “calling” and they seemed to be everywhere I turned. I’m fascinated by the symbol: it’s awe inspiring, especially against a naturally polarized blue sky marked with heavenly clouds. And they become beautifully ominous when shot in black and white. At the time I was not a practicing Catholic. I grew up under the influence of a traditional, Catholic mother. But as the fifth child, she didn’t push me to go to church or get confirmed once I expressed, at a ripe age of 12, that it was “boring” and “do I really have to go?”. This was mainly due to (I think, any way) to my placement in the birth order — and her being older and just plain tired from her own private battles, thus the lack of discipline to keep me on task. No matter, she instilled the values of Christianity in me through daily life. And now, since writing this post, I no longer watch from the borders, finally returning to His open fold to complete that which was started many years ago. The cross, one of the most simply dramatic symbols, epitomizes this complex and far reaching faith in God in two simple geometric lines. Now I look for this symbol reaching toward the sky whenever I’m on the road, especially in my town. They are everywhere.