{Once Upon a Time}

"Longing is not a mind game and that is why I’ve always trusted it. Longing is raw, longing is real; it makes one listen and be attentive to what’s inside. There is mad honesty in longing. So mad that it feels suitable. It is very suitable for me, I’m telling you – I don’t even want to write it or write about it, I want to be it."-Anne Sexton

Oh there are just some days, weeks or years I don't want to be an adult. I'd prefer to float down the river, Huck Finn style, no responsibilities. Getting rid of it all. Just roam. In ourselves we are all our ages at once, so I suppose the last few weeks I've had the maturity of a 12 year old. Where, I recall, you have this world in front of you, oozing with possibility. But you got these lame parents holding you back. And now, I'm not too sure what I'm trying to say. Maybe I need a vacation, or to buy a floatie and lay in a pool. It's summer, it does it to me. This nice weather with it's open air.

{Streetside}

“I am a happy camper so I guess I’m doing something right. Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.” ― Henry David Thoreau

{Garnishes}

“I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; Garlands from window to window; Golden chains from star to star ... And I dance.” ― Arthur Rimbaud, Complete Works

{How I Go to the Woods}

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable. 
I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.
Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing. 
If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.” 
 ― Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems

{Bright, Beautiful}

“Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.” ― Henri J.M. Nouwen

This picture, and this spot actually, just make me happy. The colors. The texture. It all combines into such a simple joy.

{Seeing things in color}

“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.” ― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Amen to afternoons spent in quiet forest filled with splendor. It is always an instant re-calibrator for clashing symphony that hangs out inside my busy head:)

{Haiku}

cold morning in the city 
deciding what is me 
and what is everything else
 -Michael McClintock

May mindfulness moments and I appreciate and grateful as I look around at the smallest details that make up the day...

{Urban Lace}

I will wade out til my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
With closed eyes...
-e.e. cummings

{Lovely}

"And you'll always love me won't you?
 Yes 
And the rain won't make any difference?
 No" -Ernest Hemingway (A Farwell to Arms)

{Harsh but Soft}

“You know, you’re a little complicated after all.”
 “Oh no,” she assured him hastily.
“No, I’m not really - I’m just a - I’m just a whole lot of different simple people.”
 ― F. Scott Fitzgerald (Tender is the Night) I scrunch my nose as I look at EVERY picture I took at the lake the other day. I forced myself to shoot in harsh light because I needed a change and nature...and water. Something different. All the pictures just suck. Bad. Except I do like this one. And I remember shooting into the sun, with a tree branch sticking into my head. Desperate to find some angle where this tree, that looks normally so gentle and soft, didn't look ugly as you know F-word.... It's like the Seinfeld episode with the pretty/ugly girl and the light. Where she looks amazing only in the light of the diner booth. And a zombie other places. Now this picture, I love how it wraps it's flowery branch fingers across the pictures and hugs itself. And the way the light filtered through the petal made me melt. I suppose like all things wild and free, stuck in harsh afternoon sun, it shouldn't be expected to hold it's normal grace and poise all the time. I'll probably cut this tree, this picture, the time of day Myself Some slack:)

{FINISTERRE}

The road in the end taking the path the sun had taken,
into the western sea, and the moon rising behind you
as you stood where ground turned to ocean: no way
to your future now but the way your shadow could take,
walking before you across water, going where shadows go,
no way to make sense of a world that wouldn't let you pass
except to call an end to the way you had come,
to take out each frayed letter you brought
and light their illumined corners, and to read
them as they drifted through the western light;
to empty your bags; to sort this and to leave that;
to promise what you needed to promise all along,
and to abandon the shoes that had brought you here
right at the water's edge, not because you had given up
but because now, you would find a different way to tread,
and because, through it all, part of you could still walk on,
no matter how, over the waves.” ― David Whyte I have too many thoughts to know what write down. I'll let David Whyte do the speaking. I just found this poem to be so incredibly beautiful.

{Bit Tropical}

“Things bloosom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything in its time.” ― Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book A small slice of the tropics right in my backyard. Or at least that is what comes to mind looking at this picture. I cursed this tree last October as I stepped in brown crabapples and raked up smooshy, fermenting fruit from the ground. Now, that is but a faint memory as it's half way bloomed and a whole different tree. Just crazy. The blossoms are so delicate, each one. Then I step back and look at these trees and they are like out of control bed hair. All the delicates blossoms form together to a whole that looks so much different. At any rate, they are worth the sneezes from springtime pollen and the mush that covered my shoes just 9 short months ago. I'd pick one and put it in my hair, close my eyes, feel the sun. Yep, just like the tropics. So close:)