French Regional Park

In a surprising reversal of circumstances, lately I’ve had more photos to share than I seem to have words and topics to write about. Almost every day this past week I’ve been making photographs even if it’s simply in my own yard or in my dining room studio.

Today I’m sharing a different view of

than I usually show. I’ve made more of the photos from my walk there toned black and whites. I feel as if I am choosing to photograph differently than I have in the past. My emphasis is on depicting how the amazing beauty of the world feels in my heart. And how it feels is often different than how it might look in a simple snapshot.

I am captivated by lushness, patterns, and shapes more than specific things.

And while I have plenty of photographs to share, I feel somewhat empty of topics to write about. It’s not that there’s not a lot going on in the world, but I don’t really want to write about all of that right now. I am content to focus on beauty and my passion for photography.

Each day I spend several hours making and editing photographs. This time of year feels so abundant in opportunities to make many different kinds of photographs because of the lush landscape outside and temperate weather. I feel so blessed to have the luxury of time and space to spend my time doing what I love.

This year I haven’t been able to travel as I would wish or to go on long challenging hikes in the woods. But I am able to take short walks in my neighborhood and in favorite nearby parks. In those ordinary places I find extraordinary beauty. Perhaps I am mourning those things I cannot do that I would wish to do. But I am also savoring and appreciating the life I have, the moments of beauty that are all around me, and the passion for photography that I discovered late in life.

Here’s a rather long (but beautiful) Mary Oliver poem that expresses how I am seeing and savoring the world right now through the lens of my camera…

Gratitude

What did you notice?

The dew-snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.

What did you hear?

The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

When did you admire?

The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

What astonished you?

The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.

What would you like to see again?

My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue,
her recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness,
her strong legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

What was most tender?

Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?

The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.

What did you think was happening?

The green beast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

— Mary Oliver