Greetings! This is my place for art and thinking. The images I find out in the world and close to home are sometimes put here. I like to smile and hence like to find images that are smileworthy. I'm also a bit melancholy sometimes and hence you might find images of solitude and loneliness.
Our granddaughter, Mae, is home with her parents and doing awesome. She is ensuring Kirsten and Paul are accustomed to her schedule and her wardrobe needs. Some concern about sleep seems to exist in the house despite the example Mae is setting, Paul and Kirsten are sleepy eyed. Mae and Simba are getting along famously and Mae is melting the hearts of all she meets. I remembered my camera and managed to snap a few. She dozed off while she was posing...I've had the problem with many of my models. Sigh.
Magic was in the air when we met, Mae, our one day old granddaughter yesterday. She is a tiny ball of wonder and had everyone smiling as she stretched and yawned and squirmed in our arms. She and the mom and the dad are healthy and a little tired. I will take and post some images in the coming days if the parents are okay with it. Time goes by so quickly that before you know it, she'll be driving a car.
Welcome to the world, Mae. You will make it a better place!!
The image is a Christmas tabletop village scene taken with a macro lens and then fiddled with a bit.
Winter fell softly like
The tears from my swollen eyes;
Sun crushed by quiet.
The Holidays come at us fast! And LOUD...endless traffic, honking horns, brazen lane changes, caroling, excited little voices, Hallmark movies, "everything's on sale," and more and more and more. Sometimes it's like we're drowning, immersed, surrounded by the sights and sounds of this happy, over scheduled month. But not for everyone; for some, life's fabric is torn...missing loved ones, pets, relationships, places, friends that used to mesh to help soften the din. Quiet isn't refuge or peace but a crashing silence of alone. The gift of time and caring might help, and we can give those without sales or coupons.
For years I've avoided mirrors, not on purpose, just, well...because. When I retired, so did my need for GQ. Not that I ever was GQ, I just needed a mirror to get all the buttons buttoned properly. After retirement, well, I wear shirts without buttons for the most part. I digress.
This morning and I'm not sure why, I looked at a picture of me that someone took last weekend and Oh! My! God! My hair is white!! WHITE! It was just a day or two ago when I was in the barber's chair and saw a tiny bit of grey. So...I'm pretty sure that some NOAA-induced super-snow cloud brought a cold, freezing breeze into my room last night and left me with this Jack Frost do! People will not recognize me. And law enforcement!! If they look at the me on my driver's license, they will arrest the new me for kidnapping the pictured me.
But then I look at my profile and the plot (and me) has thickened! And, I have a beard. It's white, too!! Maybe I am taking on the earthborn persona of Tim Allen's Santa Clause. It can't be that I'm getting old...too, too many things still to do. Are those cookies?
Trout soars like rocket
Gymnast’s twist slapt soft water;
Turned to me. We smiled.
My father was a poster child for stereotypical Norwegian emotional aloofness. He was never mean and certainly never abusive, but he had expectations for me, and mirroring, I for him. When the two sets of expectations did not intersect, and they did not more often than they did, conflict or escape ensued. Not physical conflict, but intellectual battles with few rules. The winner was logic-based but sometimes victory came by might; the might exercised by, “Go to your room!” Occasionally, I’d head to my room at the beginning of the debate. Escape.
We had few things in common and we shared almost nothing that was mutually delightful…except for fishing. He loved to fish---river, lake, ocean, and stream, that adventure was all fun for him, I don’t remember seeing him have much fun at anything else. Except work.
I enjoyed fishing, too, but with a slightly different bent. I loved the early morning air…the smell of dawn on the lake, the quiet rush of a river or stream, the fog slowly lifting, the unspoken promise of a possible bite, and then the battle to bring the fish to the net. For my dad, the reward was bringing the fish home to eat, influenced I think from young adulthood in the depression. He would reach into his tackle box and find the perfect lure for the spot we were in. He’d carefully attach the bait to our lines and give me general casting and retrieval guidance…we would connect, and the day would begin together, an alien concept for our relationship.
For me, that was enough, that was the pinnacle of feeling good. Because, well, the fish were beautiful, gorgeous, shimmering creatures perfectly adapted to their environment. When they fought for their lives while connected to me, that was a physical and spiritual moment, like I was sharing with dad. I didn’t have the same need to bring the fish home, oftentimes I’d “lose” the fish at the end of their fight. Other times, I’d release them when he wasn’t looking. Sometimes, I’d have no choice but to land them, hook them to a stringer and later turn them into something quite different.
What’s left? What’s printed on my psyche and my personality are the hours, minutes, and seconds ending with a brief, fleeting connection between me and the fish. And me and my dad. And then the release. My father died in 1993, I haven’t fished since.