I leaned in

      I leaned in

 Bert Haverkate-Ens

I leaned over the sink

and was struck

full in the face,

really, it was more

of a glancing blow,

no really,

it was a warm caress,

so unexpected

that I nearly ducked

my head.

Well, I dodged,

and then I leaned in.

It was only the winter sun,

looking in,

only to touch my face,

only to remind me

of its concern.

I left the dishes

and ran off with the sun.

Really, we walked together,

silently, warm against the cold,

remembering old times.

Snowlights

The camera lies. The mind plays tricks. Except for cropping, these images of the same snow covered tree along Mass Street are what the camera saw.



The color of the whole tree is more or less as I remember. Looking up from underneath mostly shows you where I was standing at the time.

In either case, the surprise and wonder that I felt when I happened upon this tree colored by the bright streetlight has mostly faded into memory.

Now and again I come onto a scene I have photographed before because I thought it was memorable. And then when I come by again, what I see is not what I thought I remembered. From past to present, certainly things feel differently to me. And where did that tree come from?

And sometimes I wonder this. When I have seen your face countless times and I have seen photographs of you again and again, who am I seeing? And who am I? There’s a kind of magic in the seeing and remembering the moments of our lives. Now you see it. Now you don’t.

The camera lies. The mind plays tricks. What you see is not what you get. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow will be another day. What will I see around the corner? Don’t blink, you might miss it. Watch the birdy. Say cheese.

All I can say is this: I never saw it coming. I never saw her coming. And I cannot remember now what I saw then.

If I keep my eyes open, what might I see?

A snow covered tree colored by a bright streetlight on Mass Street?

And might I see you?

Snowstones

Same place. Same day. Same stones. Same snow. Slightly different perspectives. The top photo in the series is the key to looking at the other photos. So which question is the one to ask: Do all stones look alike? Or what difference does it make anyway? Or is everything just a matter of how you look at it? If you look carefully, what do you see in these photos? The safe answer is snow and stones. There are other answers. (Click a photo to enlarge them in slideshow format if you wish to compare the photos more carefully.

Another answer is that I had build a cairn here some months ago. It was well enough constructed and in the middle of a slope of large limestone boulders that it still stood. I knew that it was mine in part because I had topped it with a broken piece of red brick. The snowfall had changed everything, but I still knew where to look. And the snow had changed the look of everything. That I think is the answer that I was thinking of.

This is how it seems to me: What can be seen is a matter of perception - and of giving attention to a place over time so that what we look at becomes familiar enough that the changes over time reveal something of the soul of the place.

In this case, the cairn became a focal point. And the photos have been taken of the same subject from different angles. Otherwise the patterns of snow and stone seem random. And beautiful.

Somehow, all of this matters to me.

Morning walk in the snow

Reflected light made the predawn bright.

I pointed and clicked.

Who knew what pictures I would get?

 

The cold had finally sapped the battery when I had gotten to the levee trail, but no matter. Just to be in a place, so familiar and so magically changed on such a morning, was more than enough. 

I walked through the wet snow and then down the side of the levee to the river. I took my gloves off to feel the bark of an old cottonwood tree. I tasted a few mouthfuls of the fresh snow.

And then I simply stood for a long time at the river's edge - listening, watching. Except for the flowing water and an occasional hushed train whistle, the world around me was silent. There were seagulls circling. Clouds of small birds I did not recognize swirled over and beyond the snow-lined branches of the trees behind me. And a bald eagle, flying towards me from downriver, paused on a branch high over my head for a few minutes.

And now these words, too, only begin to capture my experience. And so finally, after some time, unmeasured, I turned back to a world of snowplows and cars driving to and fro.

On my way home, I stopped at Aimee's for a hot chocolate and whipped cream in my mustache - and to recharge my camera. And then, by daylight, there were so many more photos still to take in South Park - most of them I would leave on my hard drive. 

At some point, I simply had to leave my wonder at the astonishing black and white world behind me and go home.

One benefit of taking pictures and writing words is the heightened awareness these acts give me that the world simply cannot be captured. Being in the world is the thing. This walk to the river and back was indeed extraordinary. But again and again, the natural world surprises me with unexpected beauty.

I encourage you to walk with your senses open. Take a camera if you wish. Or not. Get to know a place and just be there now and then.