The changing of seasons reminds me that nothing is permanent. Summer fades, Fall sets in, Winter creeps along and Spring resurrects all that might be. My place continues to be on the path, the road or the journey; the belief that we are anything but temporary visitors here is an allusion that I am reminded of as I see the trees expend their energy to be all they might become. We do the same, in our own fashion, so as to improve our possibilities of survival through each season, beyond our own life cycles and into those of our children. Our legacy is our tribe; our tribe is what we evolve into.
As I walk through the warm, Fall woods at our outdoor education school, I feel a connection to the little creatures we seldom notice and I hear the landscape yawp a death knell in preparation for what the universe must destroy so that creation moves forward. I am sad when I think of all those whose company I have lost along the path. Family, friends and loved ones have all become corpses left only to feed my narrative and my personal need to brave on, despite loss, and despite the losses that my heart may yet take on: the final losses are the ones that break us, and mine are yet to come. So it goes, and so it must.
Weathering the storms has always meant to persevere through the darker moment so that the warm sun may touch upon my face in a grassy field with a loved one who understands the beauty in that moment, even if it is forgotten when that person leaves the path. I have learned to hold on to those brief moments as talismans to secure a burdened heart in coldest of Winter. I survive because I listen and I speak the Truth, albeit in tongues.
Photography and travel surge onward, though I have had to take a break on sessions while I move into my new home. I have a few hundred negatives to scan from the July wedding, Paderno files to prep from last Sunday’s epic 70 image shoot, and my West Coast negatives have made it to #3 in the scanning process. The harvest for much of this work is yet to come.
What I do know is that, like the heavily laden apple trees on this property, I have much to offer any poor soul willing to taste my fruit (the haunting voices chant the lines from Rossetti’s ‘Goblin Market’ to me”: “Come buy, come buy!”
And then there is the music…but that is for another entry.