suppose we did our work like the snow...
quietly, quietly. leaving nothing out.
wendell berry was called the poet farmer. laura clawson said his words smelled like clean, honest ground soil. his poems, this one in particular, are simple, quiet, and honest. i've carrying around the syllables in my hands all day, running the sounds over and over in my head. there is an inherent quietness in them that feels like the contentedness of coming home. they have the smell of rich earth and the comfort of a Sunday supper and the taste of an apple pie, homemade and crackly, at Thanksgiving.
they are hearty words, simple words, honest words.
suppose.
i went outside with the intent to take photos that left nothing out. as a digital shooter, it's frighteningly easy to take hundreds of photos, snapshots in quick successions of each other. the problem is that by "spraying and praying" you lose the moments. magical photos don't just happen. they're brought on by being quiet and still, observing, being intentional, being honest. not shooting needlessly. stepping back and watching moments happen. being quiet enough to notice the beauty in wonderfully ordinary, simple moments, things, people.
suppose we did our work like the snow.
suppose we took photos like the snow.
leaving nothing out.
what would that look like? you hear about shooting like a film photographer, being intentional with every shot instead of popping in a new memory card when you run out of images. how many images are on a roll of film? 30? 40? i confess that i don't know. but i pretended i had a film camera and gave myself 50 shots. i know it's most likely more than what's in a typical roll, but for me, it worked. no more, no less.
and these photos are the product of that.
days at grandma and grandpa's refresh my soul. saturday, i pulled on a baggy green sweater that is my grandma's (things are so much better with history behind them) and went outside in their backyard. the trees were in various stages of undress, their branches deep chestnuts and charcoal black brown shades, some empty of their leaves. patches of dried leaves, crunchy and musty like fall sat under bushes and the sky was grey like winter.
in the garden, there were tomatoes, blue and red and yellow. they were squashed and curled up inside themselves, withered and left behind. apples left behind to rot dotted the ground, brilliant yellows and blushing crimsons, and despite the fact that they were old and most likely wormy, they were beautiful.
by the time i came inside, my hands were red and my face flushed, but i felt so wonderfully alive. i had a cup of hot cocoa and settled in beside my family, aunts, uncle, parents, siblings, cousin, grandparents.
it's a wonder what getting outside does to you.
suppose we did our work like the snow...
have a lovely monday, sweet friends. xx, h
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