Photography has been a gift to my life in so many ways. One of the things I am most thankful for is how it makes me more present. Through the practice of photography, eyes become keen observers. I notice the way the light touches everything, how it transforms the colors of the sky and the grass and the water. I see patterns and textures. In my head even the most mundane of scenes has a story to tell, and this hopefully finds its way into my pictures and into the hearts of others.
“For everything there is a season,
a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die.
A time to plant and a time to uproot.
A time to hurt and a time to heal.
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
A time to search and a time to stop searching.
A time to tear and a time to mend.
A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate.
A time for war and a time for peace.
I have seen the burden God has placed on the human race. Yet he has made everything beautiful in its time.”
The salt of the earth.
Some photographs make me feel as if I could hold a mirror up to my soul, and that’s what I would see reflected back.
Maine winters require resilience, but they give so much beauty in return.
It’s almost November. It smells like wood smoke outside, wood smoke and pungent saltwater and decay. Damp fog chills to the bone, fragile frost crystals gleam and break at first light. Yellow school buses squeal to a stop, whoosh, sigh, swallow children, move on.
It’s almost November. I bring out the boots, the throw blankets, the scratchy plaid scarf that was my grandmother’s. I order new books. At the supermarket, wooden crates overflow with carefully and somewhat precariously stacked apple varieties. There are squashes and ciders and pumpkins and ears of dried purple corn. At the coffee shop I drink a hot latte and eat a scone that tastes of orange, ricotta and spiced nutmeg.
It’s almost November, and before I know it, this wild riot of color will sleep beneath a blanket of gray and white.
