Lily Tomlin is alleged to have said, "No matter how cynical you become, it's never enough to keep up.” Ms. Tomlin was correct; in fact, my cynicism is near exhaustion. In a time when the cacaphonic noise of the day offers little more than profits for the makers of blood pressure statins, when the prattle approaches stacatto noise quality, all ramping up my sense of incredulity over our present collective state, an escape, even a brief one, is in order. Within my walls, Bach, Chopin, Schumann, Saint Saens and like artistic company are diversions. Outside, Nature offers a calming sundry of colors, especially green, and and perhaps even moving water. Both, I think, indicate the value of the arts and a presence in the natural world (and both when they can be combined) as placidity for the soul. I hope that you who are similarly affected by the days' insanity and inanity have similar means of finding respite. Best wishes.
Lightning From the Deck
I've been away awhile, about two months, away from camera, computer and anything photographic. In that time we cleaned out our original home of 43 years and sold it, finally leaving it June 30. The accumulations over those years were staggering although some of it came from deceased relatives that was to be dealt with "later", and we all know when later happens. It's when your kids tell you that they don't want the stuff you kept for them. I'm now convinced that attics and garages are the result of Satan's intrusion into the field of architecture. Holee mackerel! But a simple truth in all of this chaos was that every doo-dad, every trinket, every stick of furniture and cooking utensil, and every item of clothing must be dealt with someday by someone. So be kind to your kids, or leave it all to a reprobate relative you dislike.
Back to the important stuff, there was some discussion of prairie storms on Facebook when I went into domestic seclusion/delusion, and it brought to mind some of the distant summer thunderstorms that we watched from our deck in Colorado. Those storms weren't the big dramatic super cells firing off lightning bolts as shown in the prairie scenes; rather, they were big fluffy clouds with internal electrical activity. The clouds would simply "light up" like giant fireflies! What a sight! So, without more useless chatter, I'll let this photograph, which as captured looking southward over the Poudre Canyon, illustrate the phenomenon for me. I didn't crop, so there's too much dead space as well as some noise, but I'm not trying to push this off as art work; it's simply an image of late evening cloud lightning.
The Goalie
I originally posted this article on my previous website at the time of the last Olympiad but had the good sense to save it before leaving that host. Therefore, you will note that some of the content may be dated. Nevertheless, this is about one of our grandsons who, with the avid support of his parents, remains a dedicated soccer aficionado and player. The included image now hangs on his bedroom wall.
Original blog post:
To say that our grandson loves soccer is a big understatement. His school attire consists of indoor soccer shoes, high socks and shirts emblazoned with names like Neymar or Messi. Unlike many youngsters his age, his X-box and iPad run soccer simulations rather than blasters. He attends practices, camps, professional games and watches matches on TV. At times, his leisure books are soccer equipment catalogues. Don't get the wrong idea about him though; at age nine, his math homework has him working with Fibonacci numbers which he understands - better than I.
So, here in the Olympic season, I will use Sawyer's dedication to illustrate a point. I captured several dozen images of him in a recent scrimmage game, and when I asked him to identify his favorite, he chose this one. A great choice as you will see.
Here, as the goalie, he's moving to block a kick. The ball is blurred and partially hidden from us, the viewers, but he has a laser focus on it as is evident in his expression. His coaches, viewers on the sidelines, team mates and opponents were focused with anticipation on him with anticipation. Note number 21's anxious stance. All of the accumulated data from coaching, practicing, conditioning, observing and love of the game were aligned on his synapses, and with it he reacted and moved with precision. Did he block the kick? I won't say. This post is not about whether he blocked the kick; that's irrelevant. The post is about his total effort, the effort that the olympians and others make in their sacrifices to achieve. What great great moment to watch! It was his moment. The supreme moment of the athlete, no matter the age or the game. It was fantastic!
Jewels Under Foot
Sometimes, deep down in the unkempt maze of grass, clover and other ground cover that we may mindlessly meander across, there may be jewels as lovely as any that man has cut and polished. They come in an array of sizes, all rounded, arriving with the coolness of mists and fogs and leaving with the warmth of sunlight. Out-of-sight, minuscule and transient, they are enjoyed only by getting down amongst them, really close, "in the weeds" so to speak. But a few minutes of bending, kneeling or even lying prone at their level brings about a peaceful, mindful sense - as wondrous as marveling at a huge, ancient oak tree, but on different scale. Passersby might think you're wacko lying there in the morning grass, but they're transient too.
Somewhere Between Awe and Anxiety
The open prairies of the West can be an invitation to meditative solitude for those who like to gaze to the uninterrupted and distant horizon, the boundary between earth and sky. Many, including yours truly, find comfort in such places. That doesn't mean that I envy the rugged ways of the ranchers who live out here; however, I do envy their daily presence in this environment. Many is the time in my present world of horn-blowing tail-pipe sniffers that my mind wanders to the open prairies and their sagebrush, antelope and swooping harriers, or even a sight seen by few humans, the murmuration of a flock of Franklin's gulls. But the prairies aren't for everyone; I've known urbanites who were frightened by the emptiness, the absence of lights and cars, especially at night when the only lights were stars or a few distant ranch house beacons.
There is, however, a special awareness of place for anyone when a summer storm sweeps across the plains. The fast-moving clouds roll, reshape and send tentacles earthward as if stroking the ground with rain before morphing back into shapeless darkness. The Norseman, Thor, might hurl a lighting bolt or two as he rides along in the atmospheric rodeo. All is good as long as the ominous forms remain afar, between observer and horizon. But when the air pressure drops and the wind gains momentum, one's sense changes from awe to anxiety, especially if shelter isn't close by. As the creator of this image, I can attest to the feeling that comes from having no refuge in the face of such power. And I've sat on my porch during a hurricane! Not the same! An approaching prairie storm is a very different situation for a lone person in the open, but even with the anxiety and sense of isolation, it's still an awesome sight!
A Short Comment on Privacy Limits
Snark warning, not intended to offend.
Morning privacy perimeter in North Carolina...
Morning privacy perimeter in Colorado. Any questions?
