All Images are mine unless otherwise noted and are photographically based as they start with a photograph.
To see images full screen left click on any photo.
This blog is, and will always be a politics free zone. Rest here awhile.
Winter gave us a big surprise two weeks ago with a storm that was the fourth largest in Maine's history. Surprisingly we never lost power and of course didn't go anywhere for a day or two. As always in places where snow is something to be dealt with matter of factly, the roads were usable within 24 hours. Quite a difference from snow in NYC which was always considered to be a disaster shutting down not only roads and transportation but killing any sense of wonder and awe at the marvels of Winter in virtually everyone over the age of 18.
This post has images taken over the last few weeks and at the end is a beautiful poem about Winter by David Whyte, one of my favorite poets.
Halfway through the storm cars became useless
allowing us to simply enjoy the day where we are.
Part of the problem in modern life is the constant rush
to be somewhere else.
Winter scene somewhere on the Schoodic peninsula.
This red cardinal stood proud and wise,
never flinching in life's storms.
A lesson from the other side of the world's fences,
how to stand in the winds that try to blow us down.
Winter is quite lovely as long as we see it
from the right viewing spot.
From Schoodic Point.
-----------------------------
The next four images I offer without comment.
-----------------------------------------
"Didn't anyone tell you that green is out this year?"
The ocean off Schoodic Point.
------------------------
Two creations on my part ..........
-----------------------------------------
Some humor:
One of the first stories I heard after we moved to Maine was that if summer fell on a Sunday, well we would have a picnic.
So two scenes that represent this idea of 'Summer In Maine.' "Get the shorts out Ma, it's Summer!"
---------------------------
Winter
No one but me by the fire,
my hands burning
red in the palms while
the night wind carries
everything away outside.
No one but me by the fire,
my hands burning
red in the palms while
the night wind carries
everything away outside.
All this petty worry
while the great cloak
of the sky grows dark
and intense
round every living thing.
while the great cloak
of the sky grows dark
and intense
round every living thing.
What is precious
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.
What we strive for
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire,
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire,
what disturbs
and then nourishes
has everything
we need.
and then nourishes
has everything
we need.
What we hate
in ourselves
is what we cannot know
in ourselves but
what is true to the pattern
does not need
to be explained.
in ourselves
is what we cannot know
in ourselves but
what is true to the pattern
does not need
to be explained.
Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.
Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.
All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.
All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.
All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.
And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.
Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.
Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.
So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.
David Whyte
Peace until next post,
Bill Lagerstrom
