I find this to be a journey of discovery, this journaling or blogging.  Not something I thought I would do, being a midwesterner and all;  not talking much and holding emotions close.

Partly I take photographs so I can write about them.  A story starts in the field as something catches my eye.  It intrigues me.  Why?  What is it about this?  What does it say?

I take photographs so I can write about them. I write about them so I can think. It frees up the brain.

Writing about them, an outlet for me.

 

The beauty of a wildflower.  Ephemeral, eternal, renewing.

 

Wake Robin

White Trillium

Sweet Betsy

The entry is a gravel road, rough and twisting as it follows the creek.  Cold, clear, mountain spring water tumbling over and around ancient boulders making its way down. The first breath brings back memories;  cool moist air, slight dust from the road, aroma of fresh earth. The sound, the sound is so soothing. Gentle wind in trees, water flowing,  gurgling in pools.

The return to nature.

Wildflowers bring me to the Southern Appalachian Temperate Rainforest. A paradise of flora. Shady glens, white water creeks, moss covered rocks and  trees, loamy soil, sun dappled meadows, fields of flowers.  Shrouded in fog, low clouds dripping, enveloping, embracing.

Welcome wanderer.

Trillium grandiflorum

White, turning pink

Wildflowers are the ultimate drive-by.  Even I, out with the express purpose of viewing them, do not see until I get down on my hands and knees and crawl about. First one, then another, then more;  if by magic they appear.  Missed by the casual passer by.

Wildflowers are tricky. A slight breeze sets the delicate stem swaying and petals fluttering. I find myself holding my breath as I focus, as if I could stop the movement.  Holding my breath and the wind will stop.  Waiting for that instant when all is still and a crisp image can be rendered.

Wildflowers make you humble. This once proud, upright, trampling, species is now prostrate, contorted, up close, carefully positioned so as not to disturb the delicate landscape with foot or elbow.  Paying homage to this rare beauty.

Trout Lily

Sparkle

Grace

A flowers bloom, one life;  exquisite, unique, precious, yet appearing inconsequential within the immensity of time and universe. A difficult mystery.

Like the wildflower, we too are Ephemeral, Eternal, Renewing.

Part of all that has been, part of all that is to be.

Overcast day, intermittent light rain, the stream is running full today.  The soil underneath is boggy, spongy.  The trail, rivulets over roots and tufts of grass.  Colors are saturated, deep blues and reds, yellows intense.  A droplet delicately perched on a petal.

It is a comfort, this knowing that we are not alone in our emotions. We feel as others feel, as others have felt.

As important a part of our shared humanity as I can imagine.

Writing is much like photography, it is what is taken out that is so important.  I strive to show the essence of the image;  to isolate the subject by careful choice of composition, foreground, background, depth of field, lens, focus.  I try to apply the same to a paragraph or sentence, often removing words or ideas if they are distracting, cluttering.