yes, it's a little blurred, and yes, i've touched it up a bit with an iPhone app. who knew i'd be using that thing for imagery as much as i now do? but i carry the phone, slender and light, along with me on our every morning walk, so it is all too easy to slip it out of my pocket, hit the camera tab, and take a photograph of something i'd not ordinarily be able to capture on film. for the last few mornings, there've been several elk right next to the trail - right next to walter and me, in other words, or blocking our path. these animals are huge, and quiet, and i'm not ever sure if i should try to skirt on past or turn and head back to the car. so beautiful, are they, so big and so much a part of these deep, rich woods.
yesterday morning as we made our way back home along a quiet road that skirts through rolling pastures filled with grazing goats, the fog made the usually familiar vistas seem other worldly and foreign, bathed in milky pale light. i rarely ever pass another car, and it was easy to come to a complete stop right there in the middle of the road, pull out the phone, and capture this new land to carry home with me. from that image, i tinkered around and came up with this:
i look at this and think i might have stepped back to a time when there were no stripe in the road, when there was no asphalt at all. it's easy to imagine this, anyway. the fog was just as thick, even thicker, when we got to firefly road:
we've been walking this road a lot this month, since the rain has taken over and i don't want to spend 15 minutes driving one way just to have the rain come down the minute we step out of the car. firefly is steep, though, deceptively so, and i do love to have the energy and the sounds of the river at our side. the quiet where i live is tangible, something i can just about reach out and touch. i think you can see that, just by looking at this milky photo taken on a foggy, milky day. from that image, i went to this: and also to this: and upon pulling into my drive, i captured this: which transformed into this and then to this. it's almost like looking into a gazing ball, or down a well that reflects an image in the water of the sky, and of yourself looking down into that world that is of something else, that is purely of reflection and contemplation. and writing this brings to mind a passage from the beloved novel Cold Mountain, (set as the crow flies perhaps 25 miles from here) where ada is instructed to lie down and gaze backwards into a well to see what her future would bring. it brought love, and loss, and life. that's what i see when i look at the photo of my driveway, above. i see all of those things, in that light. and today, i take the emotions that i've strained through threadbare cheesecloth into memory, and i work with what remains: the light, the love, the loss, the life. that's what i do, as i work quietly away on a winter day, in pale light that is filtered, in light that is not of this world of the here and the now: i work with the memories of light, and life. xo