Showing posts with label wood. Show all posts
Remember how I said that leaving my routine made blogging a bit of a daily afterthought? Well, ironically my eagerness and inspiration to photograph increase when environs change. Even if I go somewhere that I've been plenty of times before, I don't spend every day sitting or walking by it. So when I stepped into my parents house this afternoon, the plethora of Christmas decorations felt like novel stimuli.
Tonight, as I experienced two very disparate examples of talented and passionate people, I found myself thinking (not for the first time) that I wish I had such an outlet. One of those performances was the Grand Rapids Ballet Company's Nutcracker. A group of dancers spanning from children to adults, with an amazing ability to express beauty and strength through their body's movements. And a passion great enough to make the demanding workload worthwhile.
The second act was my own brother. A kid who always walked to the beat of his own drum (literally and figuratively, although thankfully he retired from drums and stuck with guitar). He performs in front of rooms full of people, confident in his craft. It's not only because he's good, really good, but because he has put himself so wholly into every note that leaves his instrument. I can see that seven hours hunkered down with a guitar, practicing and writing music, isn't work. It's a justifiable reason to forgo sleep.
I want to be inspired by something in that way. To be so firmly grasped by an excitement and a need that even the work feels like part of the joy. I think that trying to translate life, as filtered from my vantage put and pushed through a lens, is the closest I've come to that spark. Even if my photos don't end up being meaningful to anyone but me, I'd still consider it a worthwhile venture.
(I suppose that technically I saw three performances tonight. You're looking at a photo of the lower half of a folk/hipster ensemble worn by one third of a local bluegrass trio.)
trail of talent \12.22\
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Labels:
music,
shoes,
wood
Tonight, as I experienced two very disparate examples of talented and passionate people, I found myself thinking (not for the first time) that I wish I had such an outlet. One of those performances was the Grand Rapids Ballet Company's Nutcracker. A group of dancers spanning from children to adults, with an amazing ability to express beauty and strength through their body's movements. And a passion great enough to make the demanding workload worthwhile.
The second act was my own brother. A kid who always walked to the beat of his own drum (literally and figuratively, although thankfully he retired from drums and stuck with guitar). He performs in front of rooms full of people, confident in his craft. It's not only because he's good, really good, but because he has put himself so wholly into every note that leaves his instrument. I can see that seven hours hunkered down with a guitar, practicing and writing music, isn't work. It's a justifiable reason to forgo sleep.
I want to be inspired by something in that way. To be so firmly grasped by an excitement and a need that even the work feels like part of the joy. I think that trying to translate life, as filtered from my vantage put and pushed through a lens, is the closest I've come to that spark. Even if my photos don't end up being meaningful to anyone but me, I'd still consider it a worthwhile venture.
(I suppose that technically I saw three performances tonight. You're looking at a photo of the lower half of a folk/hipster ensemble worn by one third of a local bluegrass trio.)
Today was a day of final goodbyes. For the last time, I made my way to my great aunt's house for a very cozy and personal memorial service. It was her wish that her physical being remains with those of her deceased husband and son, spread among the places she loved most - the woods and gardens where she fed the birds, watched the squirrels, strolled among the trees, and wrote her poetry.
Each of us were given the option to take a small portion of ashes and bring my aunt to rest with the nature she loved. While everyone else stayed within the yard and gardens, I pushed my way through pine boughs, sinking into the soft carpet of their needles, seeking a place where the din of domestic life faded away. The woods were filled with remnants of the many years that they spent on the property. Discarded tires, old well pumps, moss covered wooden ladders and saw horses.
I said my goodbye not only to my aunt, but to a place that seems unchanged over the years. The vintage touches were innately her and remained through the decades. This means that I remember all of them from my childhood. They were unique and memorable even then. The garden in the front room with all of it's faux birds, rubber spiders, and cherub fountains was already removed when I arrived today.
It's difficult to believe that piece by piece everything will be dispersed, and all that remains are the few physical pieces that each of us will retain and the memories that grow more distant.
wood in the woods \09.23\
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Labels:
autumn,
leaves,
nature,
wood
Each of us were given the option to take a small portion of ashes and bring my aunt to rest with the nature she loved. While everyone else stayed within the yard and gardens, I pushed my way through pine boughs, sinking into the soft carpet of their needles, seeking a place where the din of domestic life faded away. The woods were filled with remnants of the many years that they spent on the property. Discarded tires, old well pumps, moss covered wooden ladders and saw horses.I said my goodbye not only to my aunt, but to a place that seems unchanged over the years. The vintage touches were innately her and remained through the decades. This means that I remember all of them from my childhood. They were unique and memorable even then. The garden in the front room with all of it's faux birds, rubber spiders, and cherub fountains was already removed when I arrived today.
It's difficult to believe that piece by piece everything will be dispersed, and all that remains are the few physical pieces that each of us will retain and the memories that grow more distant.