I've moved

I've moved to a new location for my blogging...
Click here and you will be redirected to my new site:
rays of life

I'm back, finally, I think....

It has been a while since I last posted here because for so long I could not seem to get past a stubborn sign in system that just didn't want to cooperate with my computer's setup. Then, about two months ago my computer crashed and I lost tons of information and photos, as well as the sound device on my computer -- most of which has not been recovered -- but I have hope since it was all backed up on an external hard drive. The data is there, we think, we just need some capable person with more techno savvy than us to help us pull it off of there.
Anyway, I've been keeping up with my Flickr site all this time and glad I did because I have a few hundred of my favorite images stored there and accessible should I need them -- but, of course, not in the RAW form which I originally shot them and stored them -- but nonetheless still available for printing at least in 8 x 10 size.
I've been trying new things with my images, trying to "paint" with textures and layers -- trying to evoke certain feelings, moods, atmosphere and/or story. The image I'm posting here is a recent example, the result of which I was really pleased. (Click on the image to see it in Flickr, and you can look at it in the large size as well.)
Summer is approaching and I will have more time for this once school lets out, so maybe I'll actually be able to make something of it again with this new start!

Standing out in the crowd

When I returned from a walk this morning I noticed a bright red leaf lying on our driveway. It stood out so beautifully amidst the mass of shriveled brown leaves that have been there for a few days. I thought it must have fallen recently since I hadn't noticed it on my way out, and it was still so supple and brilliant in color. I immediately bent down and picked it up to examine it more closely and it didn't take but a second for me to decide that I wanted to take it inside and try to photograph it. I wanted to preserve this beauty, knowing that its color would soon fade and it would succumb to decay. This is the resulting image (click on the image to view it larger).
As I was walking this morning I thought about an email message that I had received a day ago from a friend that I had met a few months ago through her blog site. I haven't been posting anything here lately and she wrote to tell me that she had visited several times, hoping to find new musings, only to find that I had been absent. She wanted to let me know that I was missed and asked how I am doing. When we take the time to create and relate, it's nice to know that someone notices. Often it seems that what we do makes little or no ripple in the lives of others, that our work and our words drift out into vast space and float about aimlessly. A message like this one from my friend suddenly reminds us that we have significance, that we can be a channel of grace in the lives of others, even when we aren't aware of it. And that, after all, is what we are all searching for, isn't it?
So I'm thankful for my friend who, standing out among the hundreds of contacts I've made through the internet, took the time to let me know that my words and images have made some ripples in her life, enough to be missed when I didn't show up for a while. What a wonderful act of kindness.
Bless you, my friend. You're one in a million... :o) 

It's all about the light

(Click on images to see larger version)
Without light we don't have photography, and the image of the magnolia leaves wouldn't exist if my camera had not functioned so that the shutter opened and allowed the light to pass through the lens which focused it on the sensor which recorded the information -- or simply, if I had forgotten to remove the lens cap. But even if I and the camera had functioned correctly but the light had not been there, there would be no image of the leaves.
The light outside changes constantly, and the way we see things is affected greatly by the amount of light and the color of the light. I remember walking around the grounds of the Hermitage on the afternoon when I took this photograph, looking at all the unfamiliar sights, taking in everything and making decisions about what I wanted to shoot. I was in a hurry because I had gotten there just before sunset and the light was changing quickly. As the red light waves from the sun became more intense, so did the colors of everything around me. I was walking by the magnolia tree when I looked up and was struck by how the brown undersides of the leaves had taken on this beautiful amber glow, and how blue the sky looked as it peeked through the branches of the tree, reflecting on the shiny dark green side of the leaves. There were places on the leaves that looked like they had been painted with splashes of color, reds, oranges and blues. I've seen this happen in water before but had never really noticed it in a setting like this. It had become a beautiful abstract painting right before my eyes -- and all because of the light, both direct light and reflected light.
At this point the romantic in me wants to come up with some profound spiritual analogy about how God is light, and so on and so forth.
But the practical side of me just wants to thank God for the light, just enjoy the fact that we have it and I have eyes to see it. 

None of us is promised tomorrow. Today, in all its beauty, is all we have.

I'm not sure who the author of that quote is, but I was moved to deep thought by it today. We've probably all, at one time or another, heard something like it. The Proverb says, "do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring." A stern warning not to take anything for granted -- life is fragile and uncertain.
However, I particularly appreciate the second part of this newfound quote, because of that prepositional phrase stuck in there between "Today" and "is all we have" -- "in all its beauty." It stood out to me as a blunt reminder that I let so many days go by without seeing the beauty they hold, living a joyless, survival-mentality-type of existence. Then I think on my past entries to this blog and find a recurring theme -- stop and smell the roses.
Hmmm.....
The photograph in this entry was taken this spring in a park where my children and I had met some friends one day for a trail walk and a picnic. The trees were freshly clothed in their new spring-green garb, and the critters (including masses of gnats) were not scarce. It was, after all, that time of year, you know (coming out of hibernation, hungry, looking for love...).
Anyway, I was especially delighted by the presence of several Eastern bluebirds that came close enough to get a good shot of one of them. They are shy birds, and for one to stay put in one place long enough to shoot several frames is a rare opportunity that I relish with delight. The tree's new growth was bright green and delicate, and though it deserved attention all its own, it made a fine backdrop for the photograph of the bluebird.
The Eastern Bluebird was my favorite bird all through my growing up years and remains so to this day. Who could resist the bright blue flash as it flies from tree to ground and back again while gathering the next meal? I've watched them for so many years that I can spot them just from their silhouette as they sit on a tree limb or fence post. I have learned to rejoice in that kind of beauty when I come across it in a day.
But there are so many other beautiful treasures and small graces in each day that I miss, or do not see the value in them. I'm too busy getting through the day so that I can get to tomorrow's agenda, all the while overlooking the beauty in a moment with one of my children, or the way God has orchestrated the day just perfectly with so much that is good and beautiful thrown in. There is so much I miss as I grumble my way along the path of this journey, always thinking that there must be something better or more important just over the next rise.
Father God, plant the truth deep in my heart that today, in all its beauty, is all I have, and I should rejoice and be glad in it.

Sunrise and shadows on the sand

I awoke early the morning I shot this photograph in eager anticipation of the sunrise, believing that there would be a few gems to be discovered in my camera after I finished shooting. When I walked out onto the beach the wind was chillly and blowing stoutly, carrying sand and seafoam with it. The water fowl seemed to be enjoying playing and gliding on the air currents, often looking as if they were having contests to see which of them could stay in one place in mid-air the longest. The sky was glowing pale blue on the horizon as the sun was making it's way to its debut. I planted myself as close to the surf as I dare and waited. . . . Suddenly, there it was! One second it wasn't, the next it was. It never ceases to amaze me. This time I tried to imagine the earth moving instead of the sun, just to try to get a sense of our place in the solar system -- I wanted to feel small, sitting on a huge rolling ball as it flies around the sun in the vastness of space. I wanted to sense God's bigness, to get goosebumps at the thought of it.
I started snapping photographs as soon as the sun made its appearance, and I didn't stop for another forty minutes. I watched the seafoam blowing on the beach, and the birds, first chasing the surf and then running from it. I watched the pelicans flying in a line and gliding into a landing on the water, a few of them diving into the ocean after a fresh catch for breakfast. I looked at the way the sun shown on the water and the sand, making the water sparkle and glow fluorescent blue and orange, and casting long shadows on the tiniest ripples in the sand. The sand fences and dunes in this photograph caught my attention just as I was walking back to the house and I reached the top of the deck stairs. I looked down over the railing and was captivated by all the different shadows that were being cast. I captured a few different angles and then shut down the camera, hoping that I didn't get too much sand blown into my lens.
When I looked at the photos later I was stunned by the way this one turned out. It looks like a desolate place, almost like it could be desert land instead of the shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean. The shadows all showed up and created patterns and shapes of all sizes and kinds.

I love being a photographer in part because of the way it helps to emblazon certain memories like this particular morning and all of its sights, sounds and smells on my memory.
I was revelling in the Creator's glory that morning and I won't soon forget how awesome it was!

(photograph taken at Sandbridge Beach in Virginia Beach, VA -- April 2006) 

An awe-inspiring evening

I've waited at least two years for Mark O'Connor to come back to Norfolk for a performance -- it was worth the wait! The Virginia Arts Festival this year included Mark's Appalachian Waltz Trio, made up of him, Carol Cook, and Natalie Haas. The combination of Violin, Viola and Cello was SO rich.
Crossing Bridges is a CD that includes much of what makes Mark unique in his music. He is a virtuoso fiddle player and has composed his own music, a combination of the styles of music that he loves -- jazz, folk, classical....
Amazing -- it was utterly amazing. And speaking of amazing -- as an encore, the trio played a soulful rendition of Amazing Grace that sent chills up and down my spine -- I've never heard a better rendition.
I read the bio on Natalie Haas and found out she is just 20 years old! Check out the link to Mark's website. You won't be disappointed.

Wonderful Power

There is wonderful power in the Cross of Christ. It has power to wake the dullest conscience and melt the hardest heart, to cleanse the unclean, to reconcile him who is afar off and restore him to fellowship with God, to redeem the prisoner from his bondage and lift the pauper from the dunghill, to break down the barriers which divide people from one another, to transform our wayward characters into the image of Christ and finally make us fit to stand in white robes before the throne of God.
~ John Stott 

"Live deep instead of fast."

Live deep instead of fast.
I wonder -- does anyone today even have a choice? Everyday some trinket of technology enters the market as new and improved, smaller and faster.
I take photographs now without having to wait to see them -- in the instant I click the shutter the image pops up on the little screen on the back of my camera. Only a couple of years ago I still sensed the thrill of anticipation as I worked to finish a roll of film, turn it in for processing and then rush to the dark room to make the prints -- sometimes doing them over and over to get just the right contrast or colors -- and finally being rewarded with a "perfect" print.
All aspects of life in America are like that. Even relationships. All of these progressive improvements in life are making us less patient. We want instant gratification, instant change, instant forgiveness, instant relief from pain, instant removal of consequences -- not only are we less patient about these things, but we have grown a sense of entitlement to these things somehow. Instead of taking the Psalm 139 prayer and looking deep inside -- "search me, O God, and know my heart, try me, and know my anxious thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting." -- we fool ourselves into believing that we deserve to be relieved of guilt, and lose sight of the value of waiting on God, searching deep in our hearts for the guilt, and going through the arduous process of repentance. "Oh! must I go through that valley again -- I was just there! Can't I take a short cut? a by-pass? and get what I want now? Can't I put a band-aid on the wound and move on?"
But it's the deep things that make us grow deeper still, expand our horizons, affect real change, bring the greatest rewards, lead us to real joy -- all of which are gifts of grace, not something we have a right to at all.
So, live deep, not fast. Stop and look at the orchids. Stop and smell the roses. Stop and look deep in your heart and accept the loving discipline of the heavenly Father, no matter how long it takes -- so that you may find the richness of a joyful life. 

From death, new life

I've drawn milkweed pods before, and I thought I'd give it a try with a little watercolor this time. The fine white filaments of the seeds are always the challenge. Maybe masking would be a better alternative. Maybe I'll try that next time.
Anyway, I'm always fascinated by these dried pods when I see them each winter. They are considered to be weeds, and I guess a nuisance to farmers. But I simply love the shape and textures, as well as the subtle colors of the dried pods. The seeds with their fluffy white stuff that will carry them off on a breeze to find a place to be buried, and then with the warmth of spring brought to new life, are symbolic of our lives and the new life we can find in Christ. It is a tiny miracle that happens each spring when billions of unnoticed seeds spring to new life along the roadsides and in the cracks and crevices of our concrete jungles. They are the unwanted and uncared for, and yet God breathes life into them over and again. They bring food, shade and dwelling places for his creatures, which also often go unnoticed and unwanted by us. But, true to His word, God keeps the cycles going, he notices when sparrows fall, he knows about every little seed, and he numbers the hairs of our heads.