Riverside

August 25, 2016

Lyrics by Agnes Obel

Down by the river by the boats
Where everybody goes to be alone
Where you won't see any rising sun
Down to the river we will run

When by the water we drink to the dregs
Look at the stones on the river bed
I can tell from your eyes
You've never been by the riverside

Down by the water the riverbed
Somebody calls you somebody says
Swim with the current and float away
Down by the river everyday

Oh my God I see how everything is torn in the river deep
And I don't know why I go the way
Down by the riverside

When that old river runs pass your eyes
To wash off the dirt on the riverside
Go to the water so very near
The river will be your eyes and ears

I walk to the borders on my own
To fall in the water just like a stone
Chilled to the marrow in them bones
Why do I go here all alone

Oh my God I see how everything is torn in the river deep
And I don't know why I go the way
Down by the riverside

Both photos were taken with a 50mm lens on the banks of the Seine near my home. They were not created with the song in mind, but the song fits the photos so well.

Photography and music go hand in hand. Agnes Obel, Riverside.

Until next time...

Anne

Vulnerability and Surrender

August 16, 2016

A lot has been written about vulnerability and the strength it requires to allow oneself to be open, exposed, vulnerable. Researcher Brené Brown has an excellent TED talk on the subject. The older I get, the more this resonates with me. When I was in my twenties, striking out as a young adult, a young wife, a mother of two, an undergraduate and then graduate student in social work, a volunteer for a women's crisis center.... all of those things seemed to me to require a certain stoic strength of me. It was hard to admit when the world was too much to bear, though there were definitely moments when those feelings arose. I never had a hard time allowing myself to cry, but I did so mostly when watching movies or listening to music that stirred my soul. I had hardened myself to a certain extent, as a form of self-protection. Early experiences had taught me that the world was not exactly a safe place, and so I was often guarded and unsure of others at first. It took me awhile to let others in.

Twenty years later, I have certainly learned a lot! I have known losses and loves, joys and sorrows, that cracked me wide open, shaking me to the core of my being. Sometimes in this life there are things that happen to us over which we have no control. Losing my son was one of those things. These losses make us vulnerable, and there is no escape from the intensity of feeling.

I now see that as a good thing. Rumi said, "The wound is the place where the light enters you." When I allowed myself to be vulnerable, I allowed that crack to burst wide open, and the light came flowing in, bringing with it a deeper capacity for love, love of self and love of others.

Perimenopause, a state which I now find myself to be in, brings a new and different level of vulnerability to the table. Waves of emotions can arise from nowhere and bowl us over. It also forces us to confront that we are growing older, to ponder questions about our femininity, our desirability. It is a time of dramatic change for a woman, one which leaves us exposed to the forces of nature. Irish singer-songwriter Damien Rice said, "Time is contagious; everybody's getting older." So true, Damien. Sometimes we are more aware of that fact than others.

Being an artist requires a certain level of vulnerability too. It requires of us to embrace the risks that people won't like what we do, that they won't understand what we do. We risk judgment, criticism, and in the worst cases, contempt.

Driven by the need to express emotions, dreams, impressions, bits of self, I continue to make art. And in doing so, I continue to embrace my vulnerability. It's not always comfortable, not is it always easy, but it is authentic and honest. To me, that is far more important. Making art helps me traverse these strange waters, it is my lifejacket when they seem to want to overtake me.

Thank you for being there to help me through this process. If you feel inclined, please drop me a note, letting me know how you navigate this territory. Together, we can help and perhaps inspire each other.

Until next time...

Anne

Source: https://www.facebook.com/

The Unbearable....

August 3, 2016

lightness of being a woman.

Taken with a 50mm lens, at f/1.8, the focus here is on the bouquet of dried roses, with the body of a woman in the blur. The image speaks of the process of aging, of staying vital and beautiful as the years mount. There is such pressure on women to look a certain way, to conform to a certain standard of beauty. And even though we age, the arbitrary standard never does. It is always young and firm, bouncy and round, supple and sinuous.

Unlike a good wine, with humans, aging is complicated. We continue to get better in certain ways, and yet we decline in others. There is a give and take that occurs. What we gain in wisdom, we lose in elasticity. I had a friend who was in her 90's and she said that when she randomly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she wondered for a second who that old woman was, the one looking back at her. When asked how old she felt on the inside, she said, "I feel about 25, maybe 30." And then she smiled, and I could see her as the ten year old girl she had once been. Her eyes still had that twinkle, that spark, even though her face bore the marks of the passing of the years. There was a lightness in her spirit.

My friend was a lot like this bouquet of flowers. When I look at them, they are dried, wrinkled, crispy, and yet I see beauty there in the creases, evidence of having lived. I see perfection in their imperfections. I keep them around because of the memories associated with them. They remind me of one of the happiest occasions of my life. I see beyond the dessication.

There are other photos in this series, which I will be sharing and writing about soon. Please stay tuned for more.

Until next time...

Anne

Morning in the Garden of my Dreams

July 31, 2016

“I will be waiting here....
For your silence to break,
For your soul to shake,
For your love to wake!”
― Rumi, The Essential Rumi

But please let me rest here just a bit longer....

Until next time...

Anne

Les souvenirs...

June 16, 2016

Les souvenirs de ton toucher s'attardent toujours....

L'amour est comme ça. On se perd délicieusement dans les moments de la passion. Le temps disparaît, le monde extérieur se fane. Il n'y a que deux êtres seuls qui existent. Toi et moi. Et puis après, c'est là où on s'y retrouve dans nos pensées, dans nos rêveries, les souvenirs d'une nuit blanche, qu'on a passé embrouillé dans les draps blancs et nos bras et jambes, l'un et l'autre. Tes baisers restent sur mes lèvres, la chaleur de ta main sur mon ventre, la douceur de ton souffle dans mon oreille....

Memories of your touch linger still.

Love is like that. We lose ourselves deliciously in moments of passion. Time disappears, the outside world fades away. There are only two beings who exist.... you and me. And afterwards, it is there where we find ourselves there again in our thoughts, in our daydreams, memories of a white night spent in a tangle of limbs and white sheets. Your kisses remain on my lips, the heat of hand on my belly, the softness of your breath in my ear...

À la prochaine.... (Until next time...)

Anne

Everything is illuminated

June 14, 2016

Sometimes the world feels heavy. The news on the television is too much to take with my morning coffee and toasted fig bread. Today was one of those days. There is so much violence in the world, so much hatred and misunderstanding... and fear. It's hard to not allow the fear to overtake us. If we don't fight against it, it will swallow us whole, and there will be nothing left of who or what we once were.

These times feel epic, cinematic, where forces of darkness stand against forces of light, a classic battle of good and evil. But there is no superhero who will swoop down from on high to save the planet from destroying itself. Our only weapons are compassion and love, peace and understanding.

We need to scatter them like seeds across the landscape and in the hearts of those whom we touch in our daily lives. Love is the antidote, compassion and understanding, the treatment for what ails the human race.

Art is a way of healing individuals and the world. It reaches people in a way that words cannot, going deeper. In words, in deeds, in images.... I hope that I am doing my part to make the world a more loving place. And I encourage you to do the same. Peace. Namasté.

Until next time....

Anne

Parisian Windows

June 9, 2016

Eyes may be windows to the soul; but windows are the eyes and soul of a building. The character of the architecture is defined largely by the type and style of windows that are used in its construction. Paris is a city of filled with wonderful windows, French windows as they are called in English, where the frames swing inward, allowing one to pass through to a balcony suspended above the tree tops, allowing in light and breezes to refresh interior spaces.

Windows permit one to see into the heart of a building, to glimpse what is going on beyond the panes of glass, hinting at the lives lived behind the walls. And they permit one to see out, to view the world and all its happenings through a frame of glass and wood. Windows allow for an exchange of elements and energy, giving life and vitality to a space. Uncovered windows are welcoming, inviting. They draw us in. And they draw out.

In homage to my love of windows, I have created a series of photos, "Parisian Windows," exploiting the notion of a frame within the frame. The photos are inherently voyeuristic. They invite the viewer to look, to examine, unabashedly, shamelessly. They reveal different moods, each one inviting the viewer to imagine a back story.

With reflections upon the glass and the play of light and shadow, the photos are soft, dream-like, contemplative, evoking the same feelings an an autumn rain or a classical nocturne, poetry borne of glass and wood.

Until next time...

Anne

A fine mess

December 12, 2015

Yes, that's what we humans are, a fine mess. Fine, as in delicate, elegant, beautiful, high-quality. Think of diamonds or jewelry or china or crystal. Think of wine and dining. A mess, as in this tangle of experiences, of emotions, of desires, of fears, all thrown into a melting pot of language and culture, heredity and personality, that makes us who we are. What a recipe for complexity! If you tug gently on one of the threads, the entire being resonates. Vibrations travel along the filaments, setting off those nearby. The breezes blow and we rock and sway, either singing or howling, depending on the ferocity of the wind and the direction from which it comes. Echoes of the past, present and future collide.

Sometimes, though, in this state of unbridled messiness, we are drenched in luminosity, dangling and vulnerable though we may be, when seen in the right light, from the right perspective, through the right lens, we are a treasure to behold.

Speaking of lenses, for my birthday, my chéri gave me a real macro lens (100 mm f/2,8 for those who are interested) for my camera. Macro lenses have the ability to focus on tiny details, to amplify them, to allow us to appreciate the beauty that lies in the ordinary or the overlooked. This photo was taken with that lens. The tiny, tangled web was only about an inch in diameter as it hung from the tree branch in the yard. What we see and how we see really it depends on the lens we use, how we set the focus, how much light we let in, how quickly we look (or how quickly we look away). Photography has taught me to see the world around me much differently, how to observe subtle changes that occur, how to look for details and focus on what is most important.

And so, while humans are messy creatures, and life is a messy endeavor, there is an inherent beauty in the authentic messes. I'm not talking about the ones that are created with ill intent. I'm talking about the seeming contradictions like the tears and smiles that come at the exact same moment, the simultaneous hellos and goodbyes, the ability to retain optimism when things are bleak, how separation can make the heart grow fonder and bolder. These are the types of messes I honor here in this photo.

Until next time...

Anne

Gratitude

November 26, 2015

This photo was taken at Oscar Wilde's grave at the Cimetière Pere Lachaise in Paris. We visited the cemetery on November 1, All Saint's Day. In France, this is the day when people go to the graves of loved ones to pay tribute and to pay respects. The cemetery was strewn with flowers. Oscar Wilde's grave is encased in a wall of glass to protect it, and an admirer had thrown a letter and a bouquet of flowers over the glass wall. The letter is written in English, in the second person point-of-view, by what appears to be a woman's hand. I was touched by this gesture. Flowers and hand-written letters certainly appeal to the romantic in me. But this was a letter of gratitude, written to someone not known in person, yet who had enough of an impact on her that she chose to write to him.

Emily Dickinson said that, "Hope is the thing with wings that perches in the soul-- and sings the tunes without words and never stops at all..." While hope may give us the wings that we need, gratitude provides us with roots. Once we invite gratitude to rest awhile, we connect with what is. We are centered, grounded, stable, providing a strong base for our hopes to take flight. Our worries fade away; we are present. We feel lighter, freer, and filled with possibility. Hope and gratitude are will get us through.

When I am feeling sad, anxious, irritated, down.... gratitude is the answer. I say out loud the things, people, experiences for which I am grateful. Sometimes I even state these things in both French and in English for added emphasis. Yes, it's silly, I know, but I do it anyway. There is something inherently soothing in connecting with gratitude. It quiets the worried mind. It shines light into the dark, scary places and shows us the path away from them. It keeps us from drowning in that well of sadness, giving us air so that we rise to the top.

And so, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, 4000 miles from the US, I am expressing my gratitude. I am grateful for my friends and family, both close and far away; I am thankful for the love that I give and receive; I am thankful for the magical, golden light in this part of France. I am grateful for the love that brought me here and for the past three months that I have been fortunate enough to spend here. I am grateful for poetry and art and music and for the purr of a happy cat on my lap. I am grateful for laughter. I am grateful for mystery and magic and intimacy. I am thankful for those people who take time to read what I have written, to look at the photos I have taken, and for those who take the time to comment.

Thank you.

Until next time....

Anne

Impermanence

November 19, 2015

Autumn is a season of change. The verdant landscape of summer becomes a blaze of maize, carnelian, rust. Leaves drop and collect on the ground, crunching beneath our feet on the sidewalks. Heavy shadows once created by the full canopy of trees are gone. The paradox is that in areas with deciduous trees, there is actually more light as the days shorten. Eventually there is nothing but silhouetted trees against grey and darkening skies. Autumn teaches us lessons in impermanence and acceptance. Change is constantly happening all around us and to us. We are powerless to stop this forward momentum completely. Like the ticking of the second hand on the clock, the march continues forever onward.

Photographers who work with natural light are especially aware of seasonal changes. One minute the light that bathes your subject is sparkling, golden, the next minute the sun has dipped too far behind the buildings and trees on the other side of the road to produce this kind of luminosity. Even when you find yourself moving to another little pool of sunshine, the magic is gone. All the elements that produced this alchemy of light and shadow exist no longer. There are just some scenes that never be exactly replicated.

Our lives are like that too. Some scenes from our memories seem to be encased in an aura of gold. These, too, are singular events. We can gather together the same people, the same circumstances, have everyone say the same words, but the feeling is not the same. Magic is rare, elusive, fleeting. Perhaps if it were ever-present, it would lose its power, becoming just... ordinary.

Photography is one way of capturing a bit of magic. Photos are more permanent and longer- lived than memories. I am letting this photo serve as a reminder to stay present as changes occur, the remain grateful for the moments of luminosity, to remember that the death and slumber of late autumn and winter are what give rise to the rebirth of spring.

Until next time...

Anne

Preparations...  (Préparatifs...) — Preparations... (Préparatifs...)

On sensuality and romanticism and art and...

November 12, 2015

Sensuality is defined as the expression or suggestion of physical pleasures, not specifically sexual ones. Although related to sexuality, sensuality is distinctly different from it. As the sensual person I now know myself to be, I crave things that stimulate and excite the senses, those things that invite us to savor the moment: listening to the rain; listening to romantic, classical music; eating gourmet food; drinking good wine; walking in the woods; taking long, hot baths; putting a nourishing cream on my skin; smelling coffee in the morning; feeling quality sheets against my skin... These are not sexual pleasures, but they are indeed sensuous ones. And there is a certain romance to approaching life this way.

My photography is often described as sensual, soft, romantic, feminine. Even the botanical photos I create are described in these terms. One friend, a fellow photographer, said recently that this proclivity toward sensuality is just something that comes naturally to me; there is truth in her words. When I envision a photo that I want to create, the mood I want to convey, the ambiance I desire, the point of view, the depth of field, those qualities always seem to come through.

The Caress of Morning Light (La caresse de la lumière matinale)

For years I denied these parts of myself, and when they did surface, I felt the need to apologize for being too.... I'm not even sure what adjective to use... too romantic, too sensual, too sensitive. It makes some people uncomfortable. There is a rawness, an intimacy, a sense of being exposed which makes them squirm. I realize that this is their problem, and not mine, but it has taken awhile to feel confident enough to not allow that to inhibit my creative voice. The contradiction I have observed is that, while somewhat hidden or hushed, there is a general desire for a quiet, feminine sensuality. Men and women alike relate to the tenderness that is evoked by this genre of art, regardless of whether it be words or images or music.

As an aside, I have not noticed this with the French people I know. The French in general know how to savor, to indulge the senses-- with great food, fine wine, and sweet seduction. The pursuit of these needs is viewed as completely natural, with no judgment and no apologies for desiring that these needs be met.

Over the years, the more I get to know myself, the more I evolve as a person and as an artist, the more I allow these parts of myself to surface. I give voice to them now, risking the vulnerability that comes with authenticity. To make art, to write, to create in general is to plunge head-first into a sea of vulnerability. I take a deep breath and count to three before diving in. There are always people who do not like or appreciate or comprehend what we do. But when someone does understand or is touched in a profound way or is inspired by something that you've created, there is really nothing better for an artist. Art is about communication, and communication, at its essence is about connection, the giving and receiving of information. As social beings, connection is what we crave.

Douceur  (Softness) — Douceur (Softness)

Art is also about expression, ultimately revealing who we are. Henry Ward Beecher said, "Every artist dips his brush into his soul and paints his own nature into his pictures." When we make authentic art, this is exactly what we do.

And so, embracing the risk, embracing the vulnerability, I create these photos and this blog post, providing little glimpses of soul for those who care (and dare) to look.

Until next time....

Anne

Falling leaves, falling softly

October 28, 2015

Twirling, tumbling, turning cartwheels in the air, leaves rode on the breeze as we walked down the allée of trees at the park that early October day.

Being a couple of passionate photographers, my partner and I, we always tote our cameras with us when we walk. That morning we tried to capture falling leaves in mid-air, tried to freeze the moment before they landed, to memorialize and honor their journey. We shot photo after photo after photo.... to no avail. The wind was simply too strong, our ability to focus our cameras too slow, and they touched the ground too quickly, landing in pools of golden sunshine. We laughed with each failed effort. And since then, each time we see leaves raining downward, he says to me in English with that charming French accent, "Look... photo, photo..."

The progression of autumn is different here in France. The leaves lose their chlorophyll gradually, lingering on the trees much longer than where I lived in the U.S., the soft Parisian light making them glow like paper lanterns at sunset. Each day, I walk along the banks of the Seine, across the street from our apartment, observing the season's progress. The crabapple tree in the flower bed is laden with fruit harmoniously colored to match its leaves, a tapestry of persimmon, olive and chartreuse. The chestnut trees are nearly bare, curled, crunchy brown leaves carpeting the promenade beneath them. The linden trees that form the allée have revealed a thick blanket of moss coating their sturdy limbs, now visible since most of their yellowed leaves are gone. The maple trees, perhaps the stars of autumn everywhere, are starting to blaze with color, their brilliant leaves dropping reluctantly, unwilling to let go and step out of the limelight. I kick the piles of leaves as I walk, having always loved the sound they make beneath my feet. The air smells of autumn-- of leaves and desiccation and the coming rains on the wind.

When people talk of falling in love, they often talk of falling "hard" for someone or something. In my case, I fell softly. It was a quick tumble, a head-over-heels kind of fall, a turning-somersaults-in-mid-air kind of fall, but a gentle one. Like the swirling leaves we were trying to photograph at the park that day, I was free-falling, an inaudible and inevitable drift toward luminosity, compelled by the forces of gravity and the chemistry that exists between us. After cascading downward, silently, softly, I landed in the grass. And when I opened my eyes, there was my photographer, smiling, with his camera in hand.

Until next time...

Anne

Duality

October 21, 2015

Water..... at its best it is a giver and sustainer of life; at its worst a destroyer of all in its path. In the womb we are cradled and cushioned by amniotic waters, lulled to sleep by the gentle roll and slosh as our mothers walk through their days, while eagerly awaiting our emergence from their wombs so that they might take us into their arms and whisper words of love into our tiny ears. When we leave the warmth of that watery embrace, what a shock it is to our tiny, newborn systems. We long for warmth and protection, for that place of diffuse light and shadow and softness. This new world is bright and cold, and filled with hard edges.

And to this day when I long for solace, when the hard edges of the world threaten my tender spots, when the cold seeps into my bones and I am unable to shake it, I retreat to my bathtub. Submerged in heated waters, during those moments of fragility and vulnerability, I am renewed, comforted, cleansed, healed.

I seek out water in my travels and in my daily life, the sea side, the lake near my former home, the river's edge near my new home, even the tiny creeks that are flush after a heavy rain. The sound of flowing, rolling, rushing, falling water is like a hymn sung by the universe. It strikes a universal chord in us. Perhaps it harkens back to those early moments in the sloshing womb.

Water has a powerfully pernicious side too. It has the ability to lash out at the landscape with a vengeance, wiping it clean and drawing everything in its path out to sea as it retreats. It has the ability to rise and to rise and claim what it wants for itself. And sometimes it has the ability to swallow whole everything within its reach.

As with human beings, all these contradictions are contained at once. We hold our gentleness, our tenderness and our compassion next to our anger, our resentment and our fear. These images shown here, part of my series entitled "The Source." They illustrate the gentle, hypnotic abilities of calm, still waters. They are an homage to the life-sustaining side of water and a subtle nod to the other dangerous, nefarious side.

Wishing you calm waters and smooth sailing as you venture forward on the seas of autumn.

Until next time...

Anne

The Soul of a Rose

June 4, 2015

Soft as the fingers of a newborn child

cradled peacefully in your arms,

A few drops of afternoon rain still kiss the petals' edges,

a tender, embrace that affirms the sweetness of life

The breath of the wind whispers in her petals

Ancient strands of DNA course through her veins

What secrets a rose houses deep in her soul...

How many lovers have held hands as they walk past on moonlit June nights?

How many kisses were stolen in the dark as she watched?

How many noses have come in close to inhale her intoxicating essence?

Do the organs of her sex become excited when tickled by the feet of honeybees?

Does she savor the slight brush of wings as her petals are parted?

Does she burn for sweet release?

Does she blush at the thought ?

Le Poème en français:

L'âme d'une rose :

doux comme les doigts d'un nouveau né

tendu tendrement dans tes bras

quelques gouttes de la pluie de l'après-midi embrassent les bords des pétales

une embrasse qui affirme la vie

le souffle du vent chuchote dans ses pétales

les anciennes mèches de DNA courent dans ses veines

quel secrets une rose tient profond de son âme :

combien d'amoureux ont tenu les mains quand ils ont passé les nuits de plein lune ?

combien d'embrasses ont volé dans l'obscurité quand elle observait ?

combien de nez s'approchent pour respirer son essence enivrante ?

est-ce que les organes de son sexe deviennent excitants quand chatouillé par les pieds des abeilles ?

est-ce qu'elle savoure la brosse des ailes comme ses pétales s'étalent ?

est-ce qu'elle désire plus que toute la délivrance douce ?

est-ce qu'elle rougit de la pensée ?

Jusqu'a ce que la prochaine fois,

Anne

Memories of Paris

April 9, 2015

Fifteen days in Paris....

There is something about Paris that has pulled at the strings of my heart since I was a young girl. It whispered to me in my dreams, this mythical capital of culture and love, luring me with promises of romance and grand architecture, of accordians and cafés, of promenades through winding streets, of parks and gardens, of its iconic structures and hidden gems, of freshly-baked baguettes and glasses of wine, of flower markets and bistros, of fashionably attired men and women, of the most amazing light I had ever seen. Like so many others before me, Paris loomed large in my psyche, and for more than thirty years, my desire be there intensified with each passing year.

In February, I spent fifteen days in Paris. She was everything I had expected and more. All of the things one might associate with Paris were even more magical in person; there was nothing cliché about them. The Eiffel Tower, for example, is truly awe-inspiring. The intricately woven iron girders seem almost delicate and lacy. The first story of the structure is decorated with the gilded names of those involved in the construction of the tower. When the sun is at the right angle, their names glow in remembrance and pay hommage to their skill. The presence of la grande dame is felt in the city, as if she were a guardian watching over us all, illuminating the darkness and calling us home.

Sacré Coeur, the basicillica, which presides over Montmartre is also a marvel. There was a stillness inside this grand edifice, despite the throngs of visitors. A thousand tiny, red prayer candles illuminated the alcoves, a thousand whispered wishes and gestures of gratitude from a multitude of souls, some lost, some wounded, some found. Soft light spilled in through the stained glass windows, each one a mastepiece in and of itself, bathed the pews in an otherworldly glow. We sat in reverence, holding hands in this sacred space.

My last afternoon in Paris was the day we visited Notre Dame. It was a grey day, typical of that time of year, and yet there was a luminosity that added to the mystery and timelessness of the grand structures near the cathedral. Notre Dame is situated on an island (Île de la Cité) in the middle of the Seine, the grand river that runs through Paris, and traverses northern France to terminate at the Atlantic Ocean.

Notre Dame was incredibly crowded that day, and we were unable to visit the inside of the cathedral. We strolled around the exterior and through the little garden behind the church. We traversed the pont d'archeveche (the lover's bridge) strewn with locks, symbols of love and promises.

Scène de la Rue:  Île de la Cité — Scène de la Rue: Île de la Cité

A typical Parisian street scene. The ever-present Seine is at the far right of the photo.

The buildings lining the streets of Paris exude a charm I have never seen in the US. As one who is partial to grey and shades of cream, I immdeiately felt at home here. I am drawn to their stone façades, their intiricate ironwork, their tall windows.

As we headed back to the car that day, back across the bridge, we were serenaded by an accordian. Strains of music drifted across the bridges and down the streets, floated above the Seine, and now linger in the halls of my memory.

Until next time...

À bientôt...

Anne

Like Every Grain of Sand...

January 24, 2015

How many billion tiny moments constitute a life?

Each one perfectly formed; each one unique.

Some overlooked, some taken for granted; others held in highest reverence.

Elusive, they slip through our fingers, cascading like a waterfall.

Trying to hold onto a single one is like trying to preserve the first flake of new-fallen snow

or the first bite of a freshly picked strawberry,

or the scent of a line-dried sheet.

I cradle the sweetest moments, of both memory and dream, in the remote forests of my mind.

There they lie, safely encased in a coffin of glass, awaiting true love's kiss to animate them once more.

Like time, we are ever-moving, ever-changing, with this push toward the eternal.

What was once comfortable becomes threadbare. What used to fit no longer feels right.

We shed our skins and our inhibitions;

we shed our fears.

Like dunes on the beach, we shift with the prevailing winds and tides,

becoming ripples across the sands of time.

Until next time...

Anne

On the Solstice: A Little Bit of Holiday Magic

December 21, 2014

Wishing you moments both magical and peaceful as you celebrate the holidays.

And please raise a glass to my dad, Tony. I am thinking of him, as today would have been his birthday. To Tony...

Until next time...

Anne

When Thoughts Take Flight

December 19, 2014

The grey, moody days of December have lingered for awhile. There are many people who grow weary of this monochromatic world. I, for one, relish it. As a photographer who primarily works in monochrome, in my mind's eye, I see photographic compositions in black and white. The haze and pale skies have been a perfect backdrop for my work, and I have been venturing outdoors to shoot.

A whimsical new series I am working on centers around a cluster of black balloons as inspiration for a story. The photo I am sharing with you today is the first one I have processed-- not necessarily the first one in the visual narrative, but I was too excited about the image and the concept to not share something with you.

Stay tuned for more installments as the story unfolds.

Until next time...

Anne

The Long Road Home

December 11, 2014

Roads take us many places in life. Some take us off to new adventures, when our spirits are elevated with wonder and possibility. Other roads take us to places of drudgery or hardship. I think the sweetest roads are the ones that take us home.

Home can be a state of mind, another person, the place where we grew up, a dwelling where we lay our heads to rest. It can also be a place where we have never been, but have always longed for, some place that calls to us in our quietest moments.

This image was taken on the road in front of my little house in the country. The gravel road stretches down the hill and round the curve, disappearing from sight, leaving that notion of home up to the interpretation of each viewer.

Ultimately, home is where we feel the most comfortable, the most secure, the most like our authentic selves.

Wishing you the comfort that comes with making your way home, wherever that may be.

Until next time...

Anne

One December Morning

December 6, 2014

Yesterday morning In the rain and fog, I ventured out with my camera. Dense mist hovered over the ridges as I drove through the hills of the national forest near my home. The lake beckoned. It had been months since I'd visited her. Over the summer, we'd spent a lot of time together. This time, however, in the December rain, I enjoyed her beauty from the shore.

I encountered a flock, if you will, of black vultures. There must have been twenty of them lurking in the trees near the lake. They were not happy with my intrusion and voiced their displeasure, but tolerated it, allowing me to set up my tripod and adjust my camera settings.

Cedar Lake:  Morning Mist — Cedar Lake: Morning Mist

Now when I look at this photo, the stillness of that morning infuses me, returning me to that moment in time when everything else faded away. There was only the water, the mist, the morning air, the trees, and the vultures looking down upon me. And I was a part of it of it all. That moment is now frozen in time.

I have read that simply looking at images of water has a calming effect. In my experience this certainly seems to be true.

Until next time...

Anne