What carried me here
In a few weeks, I'll be having the first of two hip replacements.
Oddly, the overwhelming feeling isn't fear.
It's relief.
For most of my life, I never thought about my hips.
I'm driven by curiosity.
About people.
About light.
About Africa.
About children.
About the flowers in my own garden.
My curiosity kept saying:
"Let's go."
My body quietly replied:
"Alright."
It carried overloaded Pelican cases through airports across Africa.
It loaded cars with enough equipment because there was always one more light to take.
It lay on the studio floor besides children.
It climbed the dunes of Sossusvlei before dawn.
It wandered through townships at sunrise and sunset with a camera.
It stood a few metres from the mountain gorillas.
It spent quiet mornings bent over flowers in my garden, waiting for light and focus to come together.
I see a picture everywhere.
Then I watch the light.
My body simply got on with its job.
For fifty-nine years, it quietly said yes.
Yes, carry that.
Yes, kneel.
Yes, get back up.
Yes, tomorrow too.
Only recently have I realised those yeses were never guaranteed.
Without really noticing, I stopped walking Yoda.
Cycling was kinder.
But sensible choices sometimes come with quiet losses.
I missed the early mornings.
The changing seasons.
Watching a stubborn little bulldog discover something fascinating every few metres.
Instead of travelling further, I looked closer.
The camera stayed inside.
My phone came with me into the garden.
One afternoon, Bas quietly took my arm as we climbed the front steps.
I leaned on him more than I meant to.
I found myself thinking about my mother.
She walked this road decades before I did, under circumstances far harder than mine.
At the time, I was too young to understand what that must have taken.
Now I do.
My world became smaller.
My garden became enough.
I planted almost everything in it.
For years it was another room of my home.
I used to lose whole afternoons there.
Then afternoons became half an hour.
Half an hour became ten minutes.
Sometimes I'd simply sit and watch the light.
Sometimes I catch myself looking across it and saying,
"Hang in there."
"I'll be back."
When I look back now, I don't think first about the pain.
I think about the airports.
The overloaded car.
The studio floor.
Delta Park.
The gorillas.
The flowers.
The ordinary Tuesdays that never felt extraordinary at the time.
I've been remarkably fortunate.
For fifty-nine years, my body quietly carried me wherever my curiosity wanted to go.
And when the second hip has been replaced, I think those old joints deserve one last portrait.
One light.
Black background.
They've earned it.
After all, they did carry me here.
JOHANNESBURG PORTRAIT PHOTOGRAPHER
One Moment. One Portrait. Forever
© 2005–2026 Bridget Corke Photography
Blairgowrie · Johannesburg · South Africa
International Master's in Portrait Photography
One of only two in Africa.