Snow day

It wasn't the greatest of snow days.  The two snows of 2010 -- Valentine's Day and the day after Christmas, just two weeks ago, were infinitely better.  Although we woke to about four inches with even the concrete sidewalks and driveway completely covered, the actual snowfall didn't last the morning.  It was followed by hours of a dreary freezing mist interspersed with considerably harder sleet and some freezing rain.  It wasn't a snow day that invited play outside. 

On the plus side I prepared a hot breakfast for Tal -- biscuits, grits (made with chicken stock), left over ham on the griddle, scrambled eggs and strawberry preserves.  The dear man was shocked and obviously delighted.  I took his compliment that it was better than Huddle House in the spirit in which he meant it.  But, the Huddle House ... I can walk away from the table with a cheery thank you. Some other lucky person gets to deal with the dishes and the grits pot.

My assessment of the day has not too very much to do with the weather.  I had spent some time over the weekend thinking about the shooting in Tucson on Saturday, realizing that we are teetering not too far from a real free for all.  It didn't help that Tal and I watched "El Dorado" (the 1966 film starring John Wayne and Robert Mitchum among other notables) one cold afternoon recently.  The wild west seems more and more a reality around the globe.  Will some sort of a demilitarized zone for the conduct of respectful public discourse become a necessity?

A thin covering of ice on
the dogwood at the driveway

More personally, as I clicked through Facebook last night I began seeing photos of and messages about a  friend from the Kanuga Photography Retreat I've attended several times in the past few years.  Elizabeth, only 36 years old, had been in a battle -- a winning battle we all thought -- with cancer.  She died last Thursday, on the feast of the Epiphany.  In one of her last postings on Facebook she'd been arranging for rides since her treatments were taking a lot out of her.  Her brother, letting her Facebook friends know she'd died, announced that she'd no longer need rides, she'd caught the Glory Train.  I lost completely any sense of time, sitting stock still in Tal's big  blue chair, surprised, stunned and sorrowful. 

So, in a whole variety of ways, today was grey.  Neither of the events on my mind were the least bit necessary; neither of them is explicable.  And, no one can change what happened in either case.  I hate to say it, now that I've given this snow day an unfavorable rating, but I'm kind of glad for today's lack of pizazz.  Sometimes I need to dwell with and in confusion, sadness, misery before I can know what to do next.

Do I know?  The what next? 

I can mind my mouth and my attitude, taking more care that I contribute to the hopeful, that in everything I say -- and do -- I build up rather than tear down.  There's discord enough without my adding to the broadcast of sarcasm and suspicion. 

And, I can treasure the relationships I have, knowing they are, all of them, unique and temporary.

For now, that's enough.

A trio of Thursdays

It has been said, generally tongue-in-cheek, that doing something more than once constitutes the beginning of a tradition! So, Thursdays ... a trio of them to date. After today I wonder if I can count on Thursdays to be set apart in some way. I hope so, but only (to quote Jon Luk Picard of Star Trek: The Next Generation) if I make it so.

It all began on the 17th of July, a day on the calendar with nothing written in the square. Despite the oppressive heat our part of the country was enduring at the time, early in the week we proposed a field trip on that attractive unclaimed day and for several days we tossed around ideas of what we might do. By Wednesday evening we had settled on Redcliffe Plantation, a state historic site near Beech Island -- a drive of about an hour south of Edgefield, and a place associated with Tal's late wife's family. It was hotter than the hinges of hell, I promise, and I don't particularly like any of the photographs I made of the house and grounds. But, the magnolia grandiflora was in magnificent, fragrant bloom and I have several shots which pleased me, especially since the white balance was about right for a change. Thursday #1.

Early the next week I was invited on a field trip by a friend from the Art Association of Ridge Spring to photograph at a wonderful -- and ambitious -- location called the Daylily Depot near Ridge Spring in rural Saluda County. We settled on June 24th and it turned out to be a gorgeous morning. I had decided in advance to shoot macro and was delighted with how still the early morning was. As the sun rose and the temperature began to climb, however, a luscious but troubling breeze from across the cotton field began a lifting and swaying of the flowers and foliage that shifted my focus.

Kathy Eyster, a photographer from whom I took a class in macro photography at the annual photography retreat at Kanuga, taught us early in our breezy, and initially frustrating, week together during April 2009 that not all macro photography has to be of flowers. When the wind blows, she told us, one needs to consider photographing something that doesn't move. Now, why didn't we think of that? Fortunately, I did remember her advice, looking at garden sculpture, the depot itself and even a watering can's dented rose. Thursday #2.

Although today, Thursday #3, did not include camera work, the morning was extraordinary. Tal and I rose extra-early and were at the Vannland pond before dawn -- rods, reels, tackle boxes, insect spray at the ready. We caught and released fish to our heart's content. But, the real attraction was the location and simply being there. What could be better than the sight of an eagle soaring over our heads in the brightening sky, a beaver swimming across the pond in advance of the sunrise, the sea of tiny yellow flowers blooming on the surface of the pond at the water's edge?

I write about these Thursdays because they are powerful experiences that give my life extra meaning, adding to the ordinary cycle of yard and house work, of all the responsibilities I tend to make too hard and too heavy. Last fall on a whim I bought a book by Julia Cameron entitled "The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity" (Tarcher, 2002). Then, a month later I actually dipped into the book and began the 12-week program.

Part of it was easy, especially writing the morning pages -- three pages every day no matter what. I can count the number of days I've failed to write during the past seven months on a single hand. Another essential requirement, the weekly artist's date -- solitary time, free time, frivolous time, however, was almost impossibly hard. During the initial 12 weeks I might have managed something that I could in good conscience call an artist's date maybe five times. Seeing the Ansel Adams exhibition at the Columbia Museum of Art, for example, or cloud-watching, for another. The task oriented part of me talks its way out of artist's dates with persistent determination and remarkable skill.

Each of the past three Thursdays would most certainly qualify as an artist's date. It appears a habit may be forming. Or a tradition. July 8th is coming up, a mere six days from now. I'll let you know what happens.

Photography retreat

Another week has passed without any regular writing on my part. I watch the calendar days slip by, ending each day ready for rest only too aware of having again not made space for reflection on all the activity.

I have been away, having attended the annual photograhy retreat at Kanuga in the western NC mountains, which ran from Sunday afternoon, April 27th through Friday morning, May 2nd. Arriving home shortly after lunch on Friday, Tal and I began a wedding weekend involving not only a rehearsal and the wedding itself, but four memorable parties as well. And, now -- today being Monday, May 5th, I am in Columbia where I gave a talk at the cathedral for a lunchtime meeting of the Daughters of the Holy Cross and am scheduled for a repeat performance at an evening meeting. Home will look so good when I roll up the driveway tomorrow morning.

While I have to admit being tired, a sense of exhileration offsets the fatigue, the after-effects of the retreat carrying me along. Being a student of Lydia Goetze (http://www.lydiagoetze.com/) and participating in her class, Landscapes of the Spirit, introduced me to a slowly-paced, deliberate way, not just of seeing, but of looking. Contemplative photography -- looking at the light and looking for the effect the light has on a scene -- results in photographs which can communicate more than an image or a subject. It has the potential to convey something of the photographer's vision and even something of how the photographer felt in gazing on the scene.

This photograph was made as part of an assignment to illustrate luminosity, an essential component of landscape photography. Shot at Carl Sandburg's, now a National Historic Site, in Flat Rock NC, I took it in color, but it comes to life in black and white.

The trek to Eagle Rock

This day began the same way yesterday did: a 6:30 alarm, a 7:00 call home, a shower, breakfast at 8:00. After breakfast I tidied my little room and, sitting in the lobby where WIFI is available, gave e-mail about an hour. I felt productive and, when I closed up the computer, I felt finished. That’s one of my most persistent longings – to feel finished. So, today I know I have received at rare gift. I am grateful.

As lunchtime approached, I organized my photography vest with an extra camera battery, a polarizing filter, crackers, sunglasses and the “Kanuga Trails” map and began the trek to Eagle Rock via a trail known as Baldwin’s Reach. Although it is only about two miles from my room to Eagle Rock, over half of the way a steady climb, it took me nearly an hour to reach my destination.

Other than not being a young as I used to be slowing my pace, along the way a melodious brook caught my attention, resulting in a slight detour to get closer to it. While I watched and listened to the water, gradually I became aware that I was surrounded by small yellow flowers tucked into the shade all around me. What a surprise; what a delight. Efforts at getting close enough to photograph them and at getting the exposure and light balance right seems to have paid off, though I did tramp away up the trail afterward with damp knees.

It was the sound of the water, though and not the flowers, that changed the way I walked today. I saw less and heard more: the whisper of the wind in the tall pines; the rasping clatter of the back-lit, fluttering, golden leaves still clinging to the limbs of the beech trees; the multitude of chirps, tweets and other calls of the birds along the path, which for most part I could not see.

With high thin clouds shielding the sun somewhat Eagle Rock's long views weren’t particularly noteworthy. But, to me with the persistent breeze providing a hushed sigh above and around me, it was the perfect place to spend some time. I had Elie Wiesel’s “Night” in the vest and I read -- with my back to a warm boulder -- for about an hour. The subject of the book, his account of being in a Nazi death camp as a teenager, conflicted with the scene in front of me rather dramatically, somehow making me experience both of them more intensely.

I returned to Kanuga proper on the northern arc of the Corn Mountain Loop, an old road which gave me much more stable places to put my feet than descending Baldwin’s Reach would have. All told … a three hour excursion, making for a really great day. .

The long way around

Not as young as I used to be, not as young as I used to be ... That was my mantra this afternoon as I hiked the trails of Kanuga. Not content to choose one place to go, I studied the map, linked three trails together and set out. First of all, I was a bit too heavily dressed, even though the day remained in the upper 40s, low 50s all day. The outer layer came off in the first 15 minutes. And, secondly, I can no longer made the pace I used to set, particularly on the steady climbing portions of the paths. All that is to say that I had to deal with expectations and disappoitment as I settled into the hike. Once I got over those frustrations, I enjoyed the adventure.

From Camp Bob to Long Rocks to High Rocks to the Wolf Mountain Rest and back to Kanuga. I went in that order so as to avoid the treacherous final climb to the summit of Wolf Mountain. Been there, done that in the past, but the ascents along the way were hard nonetheless. And, of course, my walking stick, which I made while here last summer during a guest period, is hanging on its lovely hook by my coat closet in the laundry room. As always, though, the difficulty encountered along the way was quickly forgotten as I looked out, satisfied, at the long views available this time of year at the locations intimated by the trail names.

That these forests are in transition is obvious this time of year with the foliage not yet on the decidious trees. The results of the 2005 Christmas ice storm is evident everywhere, the fallen trees beginning to settle in for their long rot with skads of 18-inch white pines covering the open forest floor all around them. More sad is the march of the woolly adelgid infestation through the hemlocks. Many of these trees close in to the conference center buildings have been treated (although not all successfully), but there is nothing to do in the forest but to let the infestion run its course, changing for a very long time the look and compostion of the forest.

Where to tomorrow? Eagle Rock, perhaps.

Kanuga: Easter respite

As I drove here today I was aware of having been on the coast of South Carolina only yesterday, the Santee delta grasses golden in the morning light, the lowcountry roads built on narrow causeways with swamp close on either side. Today my route on US25 took me through Greenwood, around Greenville proper and into the mountains of the Blue Ridge. The sharp geographic contrast was part of the title of the South Carolina history book the public schools used when I was in grade school -- from the mountains to the sea, my passage across the state in the opposite direction.

It's cold, the temperature on my arrival at roughly 40 degrees. Despite the cold, however, the late afternoon was clear, the sun low, the shadows long, so I struck out on a walk with the camera over my shoulder, only to lose track of time and miss supper. I've no doubt I'll survive the night and will be extra-appreciative of breakfast (and the world famous Kangua toast) when morning comes.