Photography – Page 3 – A Wabi Sabi Life

February Memories

“Memory is the power to gather roses in winter.”
Anonymous, cited on a Mary Engelbreit card

Every day I see photo memories of that day stored in the cloud. This month it’s been the winter sojourn to Andalusia as COVID was nipping at our heels. Cross country skiing during cold COVID days. Walking Annie, both of us bundled in winter coats. Starting last week, it was the first days of my solo, midlife gap-year, three-month trip to Europe, now fourteen years ago. Photos of Bologna, Italy, my first exploration into a country I knew I’d love, but had little idea then how much. Like an dear friend I can’t wait to see again, I visited various regions of Italy three times during those three months, and five times since – Emila Romagna, Veneto, Lombardy, Liguria, Tuscany, Umbria, Lazio, Sicily, Puglia, Basilicata, Campagnia.

Castello di Procena, enroute to Acquapendente

A year ago, inspired by a heart-to-heart conversation with my husband where I invited us to both reflect on the dreams we had yet to realize, and what and how we could help each other do so in the time we had left, I was struck with the idea of returning to Italy for an extended period. I’d come to the realization that my big dream of living there was highly unlikely for many reasons. But what might it mean to adjust to the 90-day limit for visiting Canadians?

And so I began bringing shape to my dream. Drawing on the lustrous threads from that first-ever visit, I planned to depart this year, mid-February, and return mid-May. I’d live in Florence, where I found the perfect apartment in the market and cafe-rich neighborhood I’d first visited in 2023. Bright with lots of natural light, a soaker tub, well-equipped kitchen and spacious bedroom, and a lovely, English-speaking ex-pat host, I made the deposit. Too, I’d return to Venice during Carnevale, pulling through that golden thread. I made deposit on the Zen-like apartment in a glorious treed residential area, a bit beyond the Castello neighborhood I’d first visited that first time.

“*possibility in the palm of a hand,”* Venice 2011

Sitting with it, looking at dates, wanting to be in Italy during Easter, I modified the original three-month plan to become “70 Days for 70 Years,” a celebration of my upcoming decade crossing birthday. Catchy, the container for some writing, my dream coming to life glowed. Curiously, I kept putting off booking my flights.

Sitting with it a few more months, after a wonderful trip to Mexico for last year’s birthday, and the arrival of our wonderful Walker, I came to know I didn’t want to be away that long from my life here – with Sig, with Walker, in our home, in my community. Yes, I could have modified it, but that wasn’t the answer. I simply knew I simply needed not to go, now.

This past week, seeing those fourteen-year-old photos of Bologna, and of Venice during Carnevale – which really was an unexpected stroke of good fortune to be there then – and knowing if I had made that dream my reality, right now I’d be in my apartment in Florence. I’d be packing my overnight bag to head out on the train to Venice.

More wistful than sad or disappointed, I feel deep peace knowing I’d once again heeded my intuition. I’d picked my own bouquet of fragrant winter roses and was content with that.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Instructions on Not Giving Up

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the trees seem to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm. I’ll take it all.

– Ada Limon, The Carrying, 2018 –

Just reading this poem I feel my heart lift and lighten.

My gosh, what a winter. What it’s done to us. The brutal cold and snow covering much of Canada, the least of it. Innumerable, immeasurable ways, “the mess of us, the hurt, the empty.” No need to list them because I know you know.

Spring in these parts takes her time arriving. Winter is reluctant to leave. Teased by today’s thirty degree rise in temperature, and a weeklong forecast hovering around zero feels balmy. But we know spring’s capricious nature.

The greening of trees gets to me, too. Recalling that birthday years ago, when Sig gifted me with my first hot-air balloon excursion. Silently floating upstream in the spring green of our river valley. Lacy silver tree limbs and thick dark conifers in contrast to those thousands of tender unfurlings.

Remembering that. Writing this.
Knowing once again. Not giving up.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

This Matters

It’s Sunday morning. I’ve signed into a weekly Zoom hour hosted by a local writer, hoping for some inspiration for Monday’s post. At this point, I’ve spent many minutes affixing photos to notecards, and writing messages of care and connection with friends. To one, suffering the depths of grief since her husband’s passing during Covid, I included John O’Donohue’s blessing for one grieving. To the other – in response to her thoughtfully written, beautiful New Year’s letter – an acknowledgement of her word choice to describe her current lived condition, “subdued.” Such resonance.

Despite carefully curating my social media time, I cannot escape the onslaught of memes and messages, both harrowing and hopeful. In response to my husband asking how I slept last night, I shared my deep-in-my-belly fear about my country’s safety. The world has recent history of the devastating consequences of a leader’s stated intention to annex a country. So when I hear another threaten mine, my body responds.

“darling,
you feel heavy
because you are
too full of the truth.

open your mouth more.
let the truth exist
somewhere other than
inside your body.”
Della Hicks-Wilson, Small Cures

After last week’s post, several of you commented and emailed with kind and affirming responses. I wrote a version of the following to several of you:

“So each word, each photograph, each post matters.
Each kind word, each warm embrace matters.
It’s what we have which I have to believe can turn the tide,
perhaps first within the unseen, liminal spaces.”

So these minutes devoted to card-making and note-writing matter.
Love letters amplifying beauty matter.
A manifestation of the creative spirit matters.
Letting the truth exist somewhere other than inside my body matters.
This act of hope-filled dissent matters.

As do you, dear friends.
Much love and kindest regards.

Gratitude

thankful for the still flowering gift from my friend

“Gratitude is so much more than a polite “thank you.” It is the thread that connects us in a deep relationship, simultaneously physical and spiritual, as our bodies are fed and spirits nourished by the sense of belonging, which is the most vital of foods. Gratitude creates a sense of abundance, the knowing that you have what you need. In that climate of sufficiency, our hunger for more abates and we take only what we need, in respect for the generosity of the giver.”
Robin Wall Kimmerer, The Serviceberry

I had no idea what to write for this, my last post of the year. I’d read some favourite bloggers who, too, wondered, knowing social media would be replete with eye-catching memes, inspirational quotes, thoughtful musings, and the perfect poem. But walking with Walker yesterday, noticing how much colder the temperature after a week of balmy days, and nearer to the horizon the mid-afternoon sun, I listened to an Emergence Magazine podcast wth Robin Wall Kimmerer reading her essay, The Serviceberry (known in these parts as the saskatoon berry). The above quote stood out as I struggled to keep the earbuds snug and the leash loose, my first time time navigating both since Annie’s passing. I knew I had a way in to writing, even if it meant I’d be adding more of the same to the year-end mix.

Looking back on this year, with its highs and lows, loves and losses, misunderstandings and reparations, I knew gratitude’s strong and persistent thread had, as always, had carried me across chasms of felt separation into the folds of belonging. I knew that by writing poems, walking long distances, seeing beauty in the imperfection and photographing its shimmer, I was saying “thank you.”

As I continue to walk the uneven and unpredictable terrain of the “eldering landscape” – a phrase I coined at the beginning of this year – I know with growing certainty that I am companioned by others. Friends and family who, further along, offer guidance and point out it waymarkers, and folks yet to cross its inevitable threshold. For this I am thankful, for it can be an arduous and sometimes lonely trek.

In the coming days, duing the great pause between exhaling this year and inhaling a new one, may I remember that infinite possibilities reside in its vast unknown. May I remember my sovereign capacity to shape a kinder, more generous and grateful future. May we all.

“Openness of hand, tenderness of embrace, spaciousness of heart, graciousness of home, blessedness of earth, vastness of sky, for all the spaces that bid me welcome, I give you thanks.”
Jan Richardson

Dear friends, thank you for companioning me here on these pages. I appreciate knowing my words matter.

Much love and kindest regards…

The Longest Night

BLESSING FOR THE LONGEST NIGHT

All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.

It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.

So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.

You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.

This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.

So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.

This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.

~ Jan Richardson ~

Wishing you a blessed Solstice, dear friends.
With much love and kindest regards…

Influencer

*Isola di Farnese on la Via Francigena, October 2024*

I don’t want to to sound out of touch,
but I really am exhausted by the word “influencer”

that word suggests trying to
have control over somebody else

and there is already
too much of that going
in the world already

I don’t like the term
“clout” either

that word is too fickle for me

whenever I desire power it feels like I’m trying to hold a melting ice cube in my hand

I don’t want to
sway anyone

I want to serve them

I don’t want to
blaze a path for you

~ I want to get lost with you ~

to crave authority
would require me
to surrender
my amateur status

and I quite love being
a newbie here with you here

I don’t want to guide you down
this River

I want to enjoy the ride with you
until we reach the great waterfall

don’t follow me
flow with me

and as we go

let’s not influence
each other to be like us

instead

let’s listen to
each other

until our ears become
shaped like our hearts

~ John Roedel from his upcoming poetry collection “wonderache” ~

Called the Facebook poet, John Roedel has developed a reputation for heartfelt writing, often posting photos of his rough drafts hand-scrawled on lined notebook pages. From his website: “Offering a sincere and very relatable look at his faith crisis, mental health, personal struggles, perception of our world, and even his fashion sense, John’s writing has been shared millions of times across social media and lauded by fans and readers worldwide.”

There’s something touching about this poem for me because it illuminates a tender vulnerability within myself. The shift from having had a career with influence to when, after its abrupt end, I began in earnest to write. Engaging in this mostly solitary endeavour, my sense of community is fragile and self doubt can arise from “the sticky web of personal/with its hurt and its hauntings,” obscuring those occasions when I“become a pure vessel/for what wants to ascend from silence.” (John O’Donohue, “For the Artist at the Start of Day”).

To write as an act of service – not to sway, or blaze a path – is predicated on mutual reciprocity: releasing my poems into the world so that others may read them. Lately, I’ve been caught in the traditional-self publishing dilemma. After working this spring with my wise and thoughtful editor-essayist-poet Jenna Butler, my manuscript sits with three traditional presses whose protocols are precise on prior publications. Hence why I seldom post my own work here or on social media. Recently, I’ve initiated conversations with self-published writers, and with a press who assists, for a fee, writers to publish their own works.

I feel poised on the edge of a “great waterfall.” Vulnerable. Uncertain. But to imagine flowing with, and having my words be read, or heard by others, our eyes and ears becoming “shaped like our hearts,” brings me deep joy. Maybe the nudge to push me over.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

The World Has Need of Us

cliffs and gulls and boats
Port Anthony, Newfoundland, 2015

The World Has Need of You
everything here seems to need us…
– Rilke

I can hardly imagine it
as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient
prayer of my arms swinging
in counterpoint to my feet.
Here I am, suspended
between the sidewalk and twilight,
the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.
What if you felt the invisible
tug between you and everything?
A boy on a bicycle rides by,
his white shirt open, flaring
behind him like wings.
It’s a hard time to be human. We know too much
and too little. Does the breeze need us?
The cliffs? The gulls?
If you’ve managed to do one good thing,
the ocean doesn’t care.
But when Newton’s apple fell toward the earth,
the earth, ever so slightly, fell
toward the apple as well.

– Ellen Bass –

This notion of being reminded…remembering…knowing that we are needed by the world has been a theme in the poetry I’ve chosen for these recent Friday posts. Given that I retrieve many poems from social media, saved in a file for future sharing, apparently, I’m in good company – being reminded and inviting others to this remembering. When I read these poems, I feel soothed. My breath slows and deepens. A spaciousness from which to settle, reset, and choose emerges.

Yes, among many of us, last month’s US election and the subsequent appointments of those who will assume positions of power (over?) have evoked a collective bracing, an autonomic tightening of our bodies. This month, as we (in the Northern Hemisphere) are nudged or tossed into winter’s cold and growing darkness, and into a Holyday season where Hallmark cards and streamed movies consistently and reliably portray “the happily ever after,” and stores are filled to the rafters with Christmas tchotchkes, many of us are living a vastly different reality.

Yes, for many of us right now, it’s a hard time to be human. We know too much and too little. Suffering devastating losses, living in that tension, actually that grief, we may need to be repeatedly reminded – from whomever, wherever, whenever – that the world – animate and inanimate, human and more-than-human – has need of us. That “everything here seems to need us.”

Believe it. Then, notice the evidence.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

Caretake This Moment

CARETAKE THIS MOMENT

Caretake this moment.
Immerse yourself in its particulars.
Respond to this person, this challenge, this deed.

Quit the evasions.
Stop giving yourself needless trouble.
It is time to really live; to fully inhabit the situation you happen to be in now.
You are not some disinterested bystander.
Exert yourself.

Respect your partnership with providence.
Ask yourself often, How may I perform this particular deed
such that it would be consistent with and acceptable to the divine will?
Heed the answer and get to work.

When your doors are shut and your room is dark you are not alone.
The will of nature is within you as your natural genius is within.
Listen to its importunings.
Follow its directives.

As concerns the art of living, the material is your own life.
No great thing is created suddenly.
There must be time.

Give your best and always be kind.

~ Epictetus ~

I’m glad to have not only a folder of saved poems for Friday’s photo and poem feature, but ones already crafted and sitting in the draft folder that occasionally fit the mood. Today was my good fortune as after yesterday’s grueling session at the dentist for a root canal (“Hard work,” declared the dentist. “Tell my jaw,” thought I.), all I was up to last night sipping soup, with a side of Tylenol and Advil, was watching the recommended new Netflix series “‘Man on the Inside.”

Epictetus says it. And in a similar vein, John Muth in his classic children’s tale, The Three Questions, a reworking of Leo Tolstoy, here read by Meryl Streep. Too, a verse from Mary Oliver’s poem, Dogfish, that I love:

“…And anyway it’s the same old story – – –
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.

And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world…”

Better late than never, here it is.

May your Friday be touched by the glow of nature that shines as much from within you as it does from outside. And may we each and all be kind as we caretake the moments of our lives.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

Catastrophe as a Clarion Call

Never more in times of turmoil and chaos, in times of anguish and division, are we this close to the guidance of wisdom. Like standing on the precipice as one thing recedes to make room for something new to exist.

Catastrophe is a clarion call to our highest abilities, but it requires each of us to step more fully into the way of wisdom. We must reconstitute the world through our many small but brave contributions.

So keep going. We need you. You are necessary.

– Toko-pa Turner, “Remaking the World” in Dreamspeak

Not a poem, but writing with a poetic voice, Toko-pa Turner’s timely instruction fit the bill for today’s photo and poem feature.

To remember the clarity and calm found in the eye of the storm…the invitation to wisdom…to persist with our small brave contributions…to know that we are needed and necessary …felt perfectly on point and necessary to share.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

To Never Forget

*standing on the shore of Whidbey Island*

To love. To be loved.

To never forget your own insignificance.

To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you.

To seek joy in the saddest places.

To pursue beauty to its lair.

To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple.

To respect strength, never power.

Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.

~Arundhati Roy from The Cost of Living ~

I’ve taken the liberty to reformat Arundhati Roy’s words, originally written in paragraph, to emphasize the power of her statement. Every line, a simple, clear instruction for living in these times. A potent, unequivocal pointing to how to be, and what action to take, or not. An echoing of the many words, paragraphs, and poems that have been newly crafted or resurrected this past week to console and inspire.

This past Monday, in both Canada and the US, was a day officially designated to remember, to never forget the sacrifices made by millions of men and women who gave (and continue to give) life and limb, heart and mind, in the fight for human rights and freedom, and a democratic way of living. A profound juxtaposition that this day occurred so soon after election results that many fear will, with clear and unequivocal intention, undo and make, at the very least, moot these sacrifices.

A couple of years ago, in another Friday photo and peom feature, I posted William Stafford’s A Ritual to Read to Each Other (1998), wherein he reminds us:

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

In this week’s writing circle, a monthly zoom space where five of us (give or take, depending on life’s other plans) support each other in living a writerly life, despite life’s other plans, I was invited to read my poem, In the Days That Follow, posted here last week. We spoke of the need to take time to fully feel our griefs; to rekindle small communities of support; to intentionally look for evidence of our being enough; to hold onto our individual visions of hope.

Each a way to help us be awake amidst the deep darkness.
Each a commitment to never forget.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

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