i don't know why i'm always surprised by the way a little light can change one's perspective on so many, many things. i snapped this photograph of my studio table and chair one morning around 9am, just after the sun had popped up over the eastern mountain ridge; i live in a sheltered cove here on firefly road, tucked up into the valley that is nestled snugly between two steeply pitched mountainsides, where a stream loudly rushes from somewhere up above to somewhere far below, down down down the road and on out into the river, where i suppose that water is carried to the sea. to wilmington, maybe. who knows. but on this morning, just after i had returned from alabama, i was walking past the studio door with cup of coffee in hand, spotted the way that the light was spilling very briefly across the table and seat of my chair. this direct sunlight does not last for long, through that northeastern corner of the house, and i knew to grab the camera and capture it before it was gone, a short five or ten minutes later. not soon after this, i discovered that my camera cord had been left in alabama, the photo was forgotten, and weeks passed. weeks, and another trip. click, click, click. time works like that - in increments of still life memories, in the way that light filters, spills, drapes across the things that we do or don't take for granted every day.
last evening, i prepared dinner and brought it in here to the living room to eat (i have no dining table, there isn't a place for one, so i eat every evening looking out at the very same view that i see now before me, here at the little sea blue/green wooden table). i was fascinated by the way that the last of yesterday's light was spilling across the old wood, through the old bottles and jar where this spring's flower bounty has been placed, where the petals have fallen and their spent beauty cast little shadows across the table's surface. so brief, this light, these shadows. i cleared the laptop from its perch, grabbed the iPhone and captured there in a tiny computerized box a bit of soft, etheral evening enlightenment. morning northeastern light, evening southwestern glow - so much to be seen, in the way that the petals and the dust and the bottle water came together for me, just so. and here, plucked from the shining water and sand surface of a walk along wrightsville beach just before evening darkened, a bit of shell that i had spotted and pocketed because i loved the weathered surface. in the evening light last night, only then did i notice the wing i held in the velvety mountain gloaming glow.
i have quite a few containers around this house that hold treasures from the places i have roamed; to keep these trinkets sacred as a collected group from my most recent of adventures, i've tied a weathered tag onto the handle of a small local pottery bowl (mud dabber pottery, over in balsam, just below the blue ridge parkway), so that years from now i'll see the seashell hearts and glass and tumbled stones and know why i've kept them for so long. for now, i love how they mix with the fallen snowball petals on my little table - the sea brought home to mountains, from water to land, to tabletop that came from a tree somewhere, far away, long ago.
*i started out this post to announce a little springtime jewelry sale, but when i sat down to write, the morning light spoke louder than the need to speak of business things. i'll end this quiet post by saying, simply, that for the next three days i'm offering a 25% etsy discount to my readers over in my little jewelry shop. the sale runs from today until midnight on thursday, when i'll remove the discount again and full prices return. there is a little box, when checking out with your purchase, where you can place the code - NBSPRING - and you'll see the discount from the original price.
now, go to a window and see what the light is revealing to you. let me know. xo