Next year at this time…
Continue reading “Next Year at This Time, a Christmas Prelude”
I thought maybe I’d soar,
and you’d be there to meet me.
Continue reading “Travel Verses”
There are scars in Europe that places seem to carry, like a limp that lingers after the wound has mostly healed. People who have walked alongside a friend with a limp grow accustomed to it; don’t even notice it over the years, as it’s just a part of the person now. But someone who sees the limp for the first time thinks, “Oh! Poor you!” Then hesitates to express empathy because there is no sign that the limp even concerns the person any more, and besides it would be rude to draw attention. Continue reading “Ruminations: On Being American in Europe”
“I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.” -Claude Monet
I perhaps owe having become a photographer to the essence of time. Time is my obsession, my fixation. Every moment is always on its way out, and the next one is always coming. What is it like to freeze time? Nostalgia perfects. Looking back, our minds sweeten what we want to cherish, downplay what we want to forget. So, an imperfect photo can be the most perfect reflection of a moment, in that it feels realistic.
Something is howling or wailing in almost rhythmic despair. I saw a coyote not far from here once. Or maybe it’s the horses across the way, or an owl. Funny how a distant sound under layers and layers of crickets and cicadas can be virtually anything at all.
Crack! That’s the sound of something opening up. Ideas meshing from different directions and freeing you from the tyranny of doing it the same old way. If you’ve ever felt the frustration preceding a breakthrough, you know the delight of it being quelled when said breakthrough appears.
I love the animated film UP, and its depiction of finding love and connection in unexpected places. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve always been a little bit scared of “life happening,” and keeping me in one place, as it did to the man in the film. As change happens all around him, his little house becomes the only quaint thing left in a blossoming city soon to gobble it up.
We all kind of know what Dorothy was talking about, right? The comfort of returning to the familiar, after an epic, dream-like adventure.
Continue reading “There’s No Place Like Home”