Morning Trip (248)

“November – with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes – days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees.”
–Lucy Maud Montgomery

Walktober (1)

IMG06368play

I read Robin’s post entitled Walktober dates on her blog Breezes At Dawn.

I was and am still feeling disturbed and out of sorts emotionally, mentally, and physically from one of the children’s current bouts with mental and neurological differences. I thought and felt angst at missing walks and being able to have calm and peace and to attend to the little things that I love so much. I thought that I can do a Walktober, and then proceeded to make to much to large to handle with present situations. I ripped me to bits about how my walk around the back yard is NOT a walk. YES IT IS!!! #@#*^@$! I decided to take my idea of what is good enough to consider a walk and create what is more real. I made it really simple. If my feet move, it is a walk. If I can only walk 10 feet outside and sit down and notice for as long as I can, it’s a walk. My mind is still shouting, “NO, It is NOT!”

IMG06361 play bw

That mind is contributing to my feeling of lack of enjoyment in the life I have been dealt and is creating misery at the loss of the things that I love, rather than allowing my creative enthusiastic parts to do their thing and be really and truly glad for everything that is a ‘can do’.

The snarky part questioned, “Who will want to see images of the same small spot?”
The realistic part answered, “We write this blog only for us and not so many people view it and we don’t so much care, so stop it and just let us have a good time and a wee bit of that ‘challenge’ that Robin tends to do, so that she might smirk at the humor that I might need to do it to get me through a day.”

IMG06371play

Dear Robin, I do not really think that you will smirk, though it is very very funny that I wonder if a small and attainable string of goals that are easy to achieve might be helpful! 😛 Love, E.

IMG06379play
I went right out intending to do the walk that the snarky bit called a walk, however I had to get equipment for my breathing machine instead. I did have to walk back through the property. It is an old farm property, that now has businesses in all of the buildings. I actually know the family that owned and grew up on the farm. The following images are what I saw. I have also walked around Wegman’s Parking lot (it’s huge) 4 times on two other days, with no pictures taken and I spent an afternoon trekking across a college campus trying to help my other child navigate some snags. I have also noticed myself pacing the house and walking up and down the stairs while I am busy or waiting, or fretting. If my point is activity, then activity is also increased. I am pleased to report that a feeling of restlessness when I have been still is starting to occur. I am also annoyed by it, it’s an ungrounded anxious feeling. I am talking to that ickier feeling and telling it that a walk and then a moment of grounding is nice. Maybe a fix it or not. I shall have to wait and see.

IMG06369 play bw

Fractured Shards

Fractured Shards copyright

Photographic Art Pieces and Images.
© 2012 and 2013 Elisabeth Connelley & Purple Shoe Photography
To Inquire, email:elisa58t2sugarless@yahoo.com

A series of music and sound and thought filled images took me through the creating of Fractured Shards. I came upon the following video, recognizing it as the perfect accompaniment and an addition as a dancing partner to the thoughts behind the creation, after feeling that the piece was as far as it felt like going for the moment. I am grateful to the music’s creator and to the individual who felt moved to post it, that I might come upon it and to share in the experience of it.

**edit: The title of the music is “Home Wind”. This was the only version of it that I could locate, outside of a playlist…it is NOT sad music, at least I do not feel this way, nor was that my intent upon using the sound.

To The Light of September

To the Light of September
“When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not

and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground

but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later

you
who fly with them

you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night

perfect in the dew”
– W. S. Merwin

Winter at The Tree Place Series–December 8th

Hello! Today I felt full of…energy. It snowed last night with flakes as big as dinner plates I swear (as long as the plates were silver dollar sized)! The ground was covered! Then I thought, well how am I to take images when all I’ve got is plain white?

I got up this morning and did the morning thing. The clouds lifted to bright blue skies and sun! Drips and drops from melting snow and ice glittered in the sun. I remembered that I have the Sigma SD10 upstairs so I ran to fetch it and drove happily to the tree place, expecting to get some pictures. I rounded the corner and OMG! There sat an old train of passenger cars with a real caboose! In the other direction was electric green grass covered in spots by snow. The mountains had eerie shadows of light and cloud, changed by stark trees and snow. I didn’t have the right lens on the camera for the distance shots. I pulled to the side of the road, put on the flashers and flicked on the camera ecstatic to get images of this old train. Click…

…and then NOTHING.

This is first time that I had used this camera since it was given to me for keeps. I frowned and I looked down at it, it said….the battery was dead. Sigh. I burst into giggles and part of my brain began to panic at all of the beautiful shots within 20 feet of me that I would miss. I said to God, HA! Very funny! Though I’m glad for new image inspiration, I’d kinda actually like to get the image onto the camera Lord. He said…stoppit, breathe in! Take in this life, this moment that such thoughts brought you to this place to witness the light just so, the scent of the pines wafting up the road, the wind talking in the weeds. And I just smiled. I put up the image that I took on that first committed day of the tracks. The tracks where the special Christmas Train now sits. The one no one but I will see, because my cameras seem to want to say..no batteries. Maybe just showing up is what I needed, this recharges my own batteries.

Morning Trip (61)

62. [Autumn]1
The yellow forest lies beneath the sun
Quiet, although it suffereth decay
The brooklet to the Ocean-deep does run
With gentle lapse and silent(2) melts away,
The clouds upon the evening sky are bright
But wasting mingle in the glorious light.

So, may my soul in life’s declining hours
Like the still forest never once complain:
And flow unmurmuring, adown its course
Like yonder brooklet to the Eternal Main;
And as the clouds upon the sunset sky
Be mingled with the radiance on high.

–Thomas Cole

1. untitled manuscript,
2. silent/softly”

(My own note. This same poem, punctuated differently, carries a date of 1842. The date is gleened from sequence in his writing books. There is no indication how far apart autumn 1 and autumn 2 are in work nor in writing, by the editor, Marshall B. Tymn.)