Archives for November 2008

“The only things you regret are the things you don’t do.”
(Michael Curtiz)

  

I try to not live a life of regrets.  This means that I think about what I intend to do and the possible consequences of my actions.  I try to understand just what is and is not within my control; operating under a doctrine of fairness in the case of the former, and one of acceptance with the latter.

But when things don’t go as planned, sometimes that all too human twinge of regret will surface.  Like forgetting to snip off a manufacturer’s tag on the inside of a new shirt, it rubs, it scratches and eventually it must be removed.  This is accomplished in the experiential world by means of that lovely little business term:  “post mortem”.  Meaning, look back for a root cause of a problem.

What I have learned the last few days is that I need to take my camera with me every time I go somewhere.  Sure, it’s not always going to be possible, but when there is no excuse it is invariably inexcusable to leave it at home.  On Thursday, we went to Lansing for a meeting of the state’s Natural Resources Commission.  I remain up to my bushy-tail in the matter of the state regulating the rehabilitation of deer in light of the recent finding of Chronic Wasting Disease here so attending these monthly meetings has become the norm.

Staving off regret by packing up Matilda and all the lenses, we lugged our way across Michigan Avenue to the building in which the meeting was to be held under early afternoon light that was, as is the norm this time of year, low-slung, soft, but bright.  It illuminated the state capitol building up the street with a sweet, sweet glow but there wasn’t enough time to stop and set up for shooting.  I’d hoped the light would remain until after the meeting but hazy clouds were rolling in more earnestly by the time we exited the building.  We set up anyway; I wasn’t going to regret not taking any shots this time.

All things considered, despite the looming November gloom, I did like this perspective:

 

I’ve already planned to pack Matilda for next month’s meeting, aiming for both an earlier start and hoping for sweet light.

So you’d think I would have been with it when we had to run errands on Friday.  Leaving just as the sun was readying itself to slip below the horizon, as we neared the Shrine of the Little Flower Catholic church the day’s grey clouds parted briefly and an odd yet compelling yellow glow started to grow.  Thoughts of racing home for Matilda began to bounce back and forth across my mind like ping-pong balls gone mad as I noticed the yellow glow striking the enormous marble crucifix that graces the front of the church.

We did turn around and go back for Matilda but by the time we reached the vantage point for what should have been an exquisite shot, the clouds had once again covered the last of sun’s rays as it disappeared for good.  I was disappointed, to be sure, but swallowed that twinge of regret and took some shots anyway.  To my surprise, the lights on inside the church tower had cast their own eery and very yellow glow on the back of the marble Jesus’ head, so during post-processing I decided the resulting image was better desaturated of all color and instead presented as a black & white:

 

I most assuredly won’t be leaving home with Matilda any more.  But I must admit that it is far easier to simply walk out the back door and take shots in my very own yard:

 

The reactions from those in the backyard as I go about this are often better, too:

“In a time of drastic change it is the learners who inherit the future. The learned usually find themselves equipped to live in a world that no longer exists.”
(Eric Hoffer)

 

On this post-presidential election morning, the juxtaposition of the natural world against the posturings and perceptions of the human animal is as clearly-defined as the decidedly bright and spring-like warmth melting softly through a slight mist amidst the golden leaves.  It is one of those mornings that bursts forth with a rush of cheer and hopefulness; the birds and furred ones already out and about their business to take advantage of this brief, seasonal respite to find fattening forage and continue to build their stores for the winter ahead.

In other words, it is business as usual.  Yet on the human front, the results of last night’s elections seem to have left the world in a somewhat bleary-eyed and befuddled state of comingled relief that all the campaigning and rhetoric is over and anxiousness about what might lie ahead.  The pundits are continuing to expound on dangers real and imaginary while beginning the inevitable, excrutiatingly-detailed yet trivial-pursuit post-mortems on why one candidate was elected over another; mostly to reassure themselves, methinks.

While I certainly have political opinions, they are personal and when all is said and done mean nothing when compared to my actions and, rest assured, are certainly not the point of this piece.  I have chosen to live a life that in Eastern terms is called “the path of selfless service” so this day is, for me, no different than any other day.  It is that mindset, then, that causes a brief moment of pause; another moment in which this disparity between the perspectives of nature versus that of humans is apparent.

For a photographer, life is a never-ending series of observations captured through a lens.  For a writer, life is a never-ending series of observations captured through words.  On this markedly historical morning where the human experience is concerned, for this photographer and writer there was no choice but to look, to see, and to record.

It seems no small coincidence that what is being termed no small triumph for change comes on the heels of what is considered the start of the natural cycle.  As the northern hemisphere enters that period in which our world digs in against the shortening daylight hours and goes down into the deep sleep of contemplative review in order to birth the seeds to be sown upon the Winter Solstice (return of the light), the crystaline brightness of this honey-hued morning is filled with small, portent images.

Dying leaves still cling to the maples in delicious shades of orange.  Japanese maples and burning bushes positively glow with leaves of deepest crimson.  The oaks display their rich and russet browns, the lindens and mulberries and rose of Sharon all transfuse the light with varying degrees of yellowish-green against grass, in contrast, that shines with dew like the brightest of emeralds.  It is a  veritable harvest feast for the eyes and each one a jewel to be tucked into memory as touchstones for the grey days ahead.  Reminders that everything birthed holds potential for renewal, and that the very best go out in a blaze of glory.

Of late, it has been to the indestructible ivy that stubbornly invades the red brick of both my house and my next-door neighbor’s near-twin house that my eyes have turned.  Waiting for just the right degrees of both sun-on-horizon and intensity of the early morning light to record its small yet colorful journey towards winter’s dreams.

The times, they are a’changing, and so in synchronous deference to a Higher wisdom it is today that this small, simple being becomes today’s daily photograph.  Of the various shots taken, it is this mixture of ivy, brick and trellis that holds the symbolism of the dark times ahead, the stubbornness to persevere through them, and that opening through which all that is reborn must come.

“We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature – trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence… We need silence to be able to touch souls.”
(Mother Teresa)

 

There are those who seek their god inside a building each Sunday morning; sharing pomp, circumstance, and ritual with those of like mind.  Me?  I prefer to go straight to the source for my spiritual solace, and of late it’s been a visit to a local nature preserve.

Being out in open, wild space as the day dawns, with a bit of old forest wrapping around like a cloak soon to be opened by the growing light to reveal secrets both feathered and furred, is a deeply satisfying experience.  Even if it’s hard to tear my Self away from the warm bed and much-needed sleep, and even, like this past Sunday morning, if the temperature hovers near the freezing point.

Most such mornings bring a plethora of joys to my eyes and camera.  Nature’s alarm clock rings with the cries of the geese as they lift off loudly in concert with the first rays of the sun, and we often see the deer as they cautiously make their way to bed down away from the prying eyes of other, disrespectful humans and their barking, running-loose dogs.  There are the occasional mornings, though, when all remains strangely silent.  This time there was only one lone and enormous owl that glided silently past the meadow-edge trees and headed into the deep woods; it appeared and then disappeared so fast there was no time to aim the camera and shoot, only to marvel at such a first-ever sight.

We soon ended up in our favorite spot, at the top of the meadow near the edge of the woods, marked by one enormous, old fallen tree.  It is a favorite resting spot for most of the preserve’s feathered denizens and affords a clear view of the deer paths.  On quiet summer mornings, it is enough to just be there; the smells and sounds are a soothing comfort that bring balance back to this city-weary soul.  At mid-fall, however, there isn’t enough long underwear or warm enough boots to make up for a lack of activity and after only an hour I was quite ready to call it quits and head back to our cozy home in the ‘hood. 

And though I tried mightily, I was able to come up with only one shot:

 

It didn’t seem fair, especially since our last visit found us smack in the middle of a whole flock of cedar waxwings taking advantage of the final fall feast of berries:

 

As is par for the course, shortly after arriving back home the usual suspects in fur coats were all over the backyard and I took advantage of it to capture a portrait of Titan, one of the orphans raised here last spring, now on his own: