[ this moment ] - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. (Homage to Soule Mama)
20 January 2012
[ this moment ]
[ this moment ] - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. (Homage to Soule Mama)
13 January 2012
[ this moment ]
[ this moment ] - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. (Homage to Soule Mama)
08 January 2012
Soundtrack
The Milky Way oozes
mutely across the sky while
the constant roaring of Soap
Creek Rapids lulls us towards
sleep. Gritty sand dusts my face,
lodged in eyebrows and eyelashes
like snowflakes on pine trees.
At this distance from the river
in our tiny tent, we can
whisper to one another
over pillows made from clothing
wrapped in fleece jackets.
Tomorrow, though, as you fish
from atop a huge boulder
at the river’s edge, I’ll yell
to you from below and barely
be heard. If we stay long enough,
we’ll get used to the river’s
thunder, like someone might no
longer notice the noise of
the traffic so much after
a week in the city.
In the mornings, sitting cross-
legged on cold sand, too chilled
and stiff yet to move beyond
necessity, I sip hot
tea brewed from the ancient
Colorado and we watch
the light change the canyon walls
as the sun emerges from the rim.
My mind wanders slowly here
from the flock of snowy-white
egrets, to the red, then golden,
then sand-colored cliffs, to the
lone black raven laughing
overhead, and always, always
back to the river, here, now,
roiling celadon and white-
tipped, and yet later, upstream,
glassy brown, the water level
changing, too, its power
channeled for those far
beyond the dam who think
nothing of the river’s gift.
On the hike out, we chatter
as we march, navigating
boulders the size of houses
lodged in the side canyon,
longing for the comforts of
civilization like fluffy
pillows and ice-cold Cokes,
until we realize the roar
of the river is gone.
It is quiet then.
We do not mention this absence,
yet each mark it within: contrast
this moment with the journey
downcanyon where the initial
sound of the river is announced :
sssshhh – listen followed by
elated whoops. Yet now we
hike on, the silence louder
than the scraping of
boots over stone.
mutely across the sky while
the constant roaring of Soap
Creek Rapids lulls us towards
sleep. Gritty sand dusts my face,
lodged in eyebrows and eyelashes
like snowflakes on pine trees.
At this distance from the river
in our tiny tent, we can
whisper to one another
over pillows made from clothing
wrapped in fleece jackets.
Tomorrow, though, as you fish
from atop a huge boulder
at the river’s edge, I’ll yell
to you from below and barely
be heard. If we stay long enough,
we’ll get used to the river’s
thunder, like someone might no
longer notice the noise of
the traffic so much after
a week in the city.
In the mornings, sitting cross-
legged on cold sand, too chilled
and stiff yet to move beyond
necessity, I sip hot
tea brewed from the ancient
Colorado and we watch
the light change the canyon walls
as the sun emerges from the rim.
My mind wanders slowly here
from the flock of snowy-white
egrets, to the red, then golden,
then sand-colored cliffs, to the
lone black raven laughing
overhead, and always, always
back to the river, here, now,
roiling celadon and white-
tipped, and yet later, upstream,
glassy brown, the water level
changing, too, its power
channeled for those far
beyond the dam who think
nothing of the river’s gift.
On the hike out, we chatter
as we march, navigating
boulders the size of houses
lodged in the side canyon,
longing for the comforts of
civilization like fluffy
pillows and ice-cold Cokes,
until we realize the roar
of the river is gone.
It is quiet then.
We do not mention this absence,
yet each mark it within: contrast
this moment with the journey
downcanyon where the initial
sound of the river is announced :
sssshhh – listen followed by
elated whoops. Yet now we
hike on, the silence louder
than the scraping of
boots over stone.
06 January 2012
[ this moment ]
[ this moment ] - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. (Homage to Soule Mama)
01 January 2012
Morning Coffee
Lila was surprised to see a calendar reminder pop up on her phone, especially on that most depressing day of the year, December 26. All it said: “I will leave.” She couldn’t fathom what that meant, or even if she’d entered those words into her calendar.
She was feeling a pang of remorse for the piece of fudge she’d popped in her mouth a few moments earlier, as if her pants hadn’t fit that snug prior to this piece of gooey chocolate sliding down her throat. She’d been in the midst of making yet another to-do list, reminders of things that had needed doing for months now: clean the downstairs tub, put water seal on the deck, vacuum. And never mind that it was December and far too cold to apply water seal. It still needed to be done, and just because the timing was no longer right – one of the themes of her life, she noticed – that didn’t give her free reign to remove it from the list. Lila sometimes wondered how much more she might have accomplished in life if she spent the time actually doing things on her to-do list instead of re-copying it.
Just then Boyce appeared, wearing only boxer shorts, scratching his hairy chest. His eyes were half-shut as he moved toward the coffee maker. Lila heard him lift the empty carafe.
“No coffee?”
“We’re out.”
Boyce exhaled and then started coughing, his hacking morning cough that always sounded a bit like retching.
The calendar reminder chimed again, barely audible above Boyce’s fit.
Lila stopped writing her list in the middle of a word and put down her pen. She stood up, grabbing her purse and keys. She glanced at her phone, and then left it on the table.
“I’m getting coffee,” she said. And she walked out the door, noticing the satisfying click it made as it closed behind her.
She was feeling a pang of remorse for the piece of fudge she’d popped in her mouth a few moments earlier, as if her pants hadn’t fit that snug prior to this piece of gooey chocolate sliding down her throat. She’d been in the midst of making yet another to-do list, reminders of things that had needed doing for months now: clean the downstairs tub, put water seal on the deck, vacuum. And never mind that it was December and far too cold to apply water seal. It still needed to be done, and just because the timing was no longer right – one of the themes of her life, she noticed – that didn’t give her free reign to remove it from the list. Lila sometimes wondered how much more she might have accomplished in life if she spent the time actually doing things on her to-do list instead of re-copying it.
Just then Boyce appeared, wearing only boxer shorts, scratching his hairy chest. His eyes were half-shut as he moved toward the coffee maker. Lila heard him lift the empty carafe.
“No coffee?”
“We’re out.”
Boyce exhaled and then started coughing, his hacking morning cough that always sounded a bit like retching.
The calendar reminder chimed again, barely audible above Boyce’s fit.
Lila stopped writing her list in the middle of a word and put down her pen. She stood up, grabbing her purse and keys. She glanced at her phone, and then left it on the table.
“I’m getting coffee,” she said. And she walked out the door, noticing the satisfying click it made as it closed behind her.
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