|Burrowing Owl by Wagner Machado Carlos Lemes, source Wikimedia Commons|
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Saturday, February 8, 2014
|All photos by me.|
Thus, when my family moved to an area where there was at least one good snowfall every winter, I developed the habit of wandering for hours in our woods every time it snowed, reveling in the enchanting sound of falling snow and the way the ordinary world could be transformed in a matter of minutes into the world of the fae, dangerous and beautiful, silent and yet full of music.
To an artist's eyes as well there is endless fascination and inspiration. Ice and snow exhibit some of the most exquisite, detailed patterns one will ever find. If you bother to slow down and look closely, new worlds reveal themselves to the naked eye. I invite you to try it next time you're outside in the snow.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
|Photo by me.|
I recently took a trip to New Orleans, which is actually quite an interesting and mysterious city. Because I love old things, I sought out the oldest house in New Orleans, and found it in a more out-of-the-way part of the city. Called the Spanish Custom House, and built in 1784, it looks like something straight out of Gone With the Wind or a Southern Gothic novel. There must be so much history that has taken place in a house as old as this.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Monday, December 16, 2013
|Sommeraften ved Skagens strand, P.S. Kroyer, 1899. Wikimedia Commons.|
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o’er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O, how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O’er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.