One wanders around taking pictures of anything that grabs her attention: light in the trees, summer grasses dappled with dew, the creek in the woods singing as it flows downhill, cedar rail fences, flocks of geese, herons and loons, fallen leaves, wild orchids, full moons and starry nights, snowdrifts as high as the Himalayas.
Closer to home, there are the clothes on my neighbor's line and her collection of brightly colored clothespins, tiny beakers of espresso and mugs of tea, sunlight coming through the kitchen window, birds, bumbles and butterflies, the Beech Mother (and her daughters), darling Beau who lights up my world and my life.
There is (of course) the pesky business of finding words to accompany the images, but I am getting better at letting them speak for themselves. Most of the time, they don't need my inept tinkering and feeble attempts at description anyway.
The gathering of small wonders goes on and on like a litany or the beads on a very long mala. There is always something astonishing to see if one has a little imagination and the presence of mind to pay attention to what is going on around her. As we (Beau and I) potter along, I say thanks to the Old Wild Mother (Earth) for all the fine stuff she is dishing out. I have always done it, so that is nothing new.
Why mention all this stuff here on a Monday morning? For some reason, I am feeling a little down and I need a reminder. This is it.
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