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Uniting

My good friend Charles sent me a note yesterday.
He had printed the card himself,
   placing appropriately one of his photographs
      on the outside.
His image, made a year ago,
   is quite reminiscent of one of mine,
      made last month.
We share an appreciation for meadow salsify.
He had taken the time to write his reflective thoughts
   in his careful handwriting,
      pure black on pure white.
In part, this is what he wrote:
"Your writing and your photography
   are a perfect match.
You find your way into poetry very much, I think,
   as you find your way into a photograph.
There lurks in a corner of my mind
   a passage in Robert Frost
      that seems a commentary on the way
         your work relates to your life.
Yes, here it is:

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes are one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes."

I would like to think
   that I am living my way
      into my friend's kind words.
In the meantime I'll hold on to his thoughts
   as I tramp that field
      just south of here.

Proper Response

The proper response
to the world
is applause.
William Carlos Williams

I like that.
But more I believe it.
A fitting response?
Not a long-winded tribute.
Not a well-crafted sonnet.
Not a blog with words and photographs.
Not even a melodious psalm.
Applause.
Vigorous handclapping.
A standing ovation,
   one that might last
     the better part of our lifetime on earth.
At which time
   we would cease doing the clapping
      and then become the clapping.

Don't Think

Don't think,
look.
Ludwig Wittgenstein

I don't know the exact context
   in which the Austrian philosopher
      composed these words.
Odd that a man of thought
   would eschew thought.
And yet isn't that the mantra
   that brings into being every photograph
      that is contemplative in nature?
Isn't that the inner voice
   that is heard when such photographs
   are about to come into being?
Don't think—
   look.
Don't study—
   see.
Don't try to reason it all out—
   go with your God-given intuition.
Don't stay in your mind—
   let go of it
      and allow it to let go of you.
Dare to be in your eyes
   and see with your soul
      and live with whatever results.

Real

One morning last fall Bernie and I
   left our B&B on the coast of Maine,
      agreeing we would drive inland,
         not knowing where we would end up.
I was looking for color to photograph;
   Bernie was simply out to see.
Noontime found us in Union, Maine.
Union is home to 600 families,
   a tiny village green,
      and Hannibal's Cafe.
Naturally, we pulled over for lunch.
The atmosphere was clean, casual,
   well-worn, and friendly.
Both coffee and soup were great,
   warming us nicely.
We enjoyed listening to the talk
   that jumped from table to table—
      these folks had gathered there before.
Over one spoonful I spotted a T-shirt
   on the far wall.
"Hannibal's Cafe" it read, in outdated graphics,
   a steaming coffee cup to one side.
I knew right away I needed that shirt.
Nowadays I pull it over my head often.
Each time I remember with fondness
   that warm atmosphere,
      the day filled with color,
         our lovely stay in Camden, Maine.
That plain red-orange cotton shirt, already fading,
   brings me easy joy.
That's how most of my photography works.
I see, for example, the image
   of the wet leaves found on the bush
      along the edge of San Antonio's Riverwalk last month,
         and I smile inside.
I remember our walk in the overpowering rain,
   the dinner overlooking the water,
      the unusual morning sounds.
I believe one mark of contemplative photography
   is that it's about the real,
      wherever that appears—
   beside rivers,
      in fields just down the road,
         inside white-washed village cafes.
I believe it's less about what's grand
   and more about what's authentic.

Scratch

If you wish to make
an apple pie from scratch,
you must first create the universe.
Carl Sagan

Sagan's words are a wake-up call
   every time I come upon them.
When we photographers take complete responsibility
   for the images we make,
      we will do well to be reminded
         of Sagan's admonishing wisdom.
If we're going to call that image of a rose completely our own,
   then we'd best start with having designed
      the rose from the ground up.
Otherwise the true creation of that image
   is not ours alone, but shared.
In fact, a photographer's role in that creative act
   is terribly minor, bordering on insignificant.
I believe most photography says,
   "Hey, look what a person with a camera came upon and saw,"
      not, "Look what a person holding a camera
         made from scratch."
While the photographer may boast otherwise,
   the photograph knows.
So does the rose.

The Simple

It is always the simple
that produces the marvelous.
Amelia Barr

I wanted to photograph the simple
   without any distractions:
      an ordinary weed
         with nothing else in the frame,
            not even a color.
So my brother Mike built me
   a world-class backdrop,
      then I did some serious shopping
         for some weeds in a nearby field.
I set up to photograph outside,
   but when the wind refused to cooperate,
      I moved everything indoors.
I stationed a weed where I wanted it,
   turned on a light,
      and proceeded to photograph.
It felt weird photographing this way—
   I had never posed a weed before.
Having done this type of photography once,
   I don't imagine I'll do it a lot,
      but I imagine I will do it more.
In the finished image,
   I found the stark simplicity
      of this piece of God's creation
         rather intriguing.
It's so simple.
But look at its amazing complexity!
It's so ordinary.
But think about designing something
   as extraordinary as this!
I'd say it's nothing less than divine.

Contemplative Born

Children are born contemplatives.
Fr. Laurence Freeman

We were visiting relatives in San Angelo, Texas recently.
San Angelo, if you're not aware, is home to
   the International Waterlily Collection.
I've tried to photograph waterlilies many times
   but I have few images to show for it.
It's hard to get close to them,
   to get a good angle on them.
Then there's the problem that one's tripod
   doesn't work all that well
      standing on the surface of a pond.
So when I heard about the International Waterlily Collection,
   I made my way there.
It's lovely.
More than that, it's all a photographer could want.
Many varieties of lilies grow in well-maintained pools
   of various heights.
The small park is sunken below street level
   so it feels private and quiet.
Concrete paths meander throughout.
I photographed there two mornings,
   one afternoon, and one evening.
Calmly and quietly I photographed the calmness and quietness
   of my subjects, making over 200 images.
I studied each one as I downloaded it
   on my laptop after each session.
A representative one is below.

The morning of our last day in San Angelo,
   the local newspaper ran a large, full-color photograph
      on an opening page.
It was of a waterlily.
It had been taken the day before
   at the International Waterlily Collection.
The image was serene and restful,
   soft in color and tone,
      a delight to the eye and the soul.
It was more evocative than any image I had made
   in all my trips there.
I knew it the moment I saw it.
My eyes then fell to the caption below the image.
The photograph had been made by a nine-year-old girl.
Somehow it seemed only fitting.

The Only Prayer

may I be I is the only prayer—
not may I be great or good
or beautiful or wise or strong.
E. E. Cummings

First things first:
While E. E. Cummings sometimes wrote his name
   by decapitalizing the initial letters,
      he did not always do that,
         nor did he expect others to decapitalize his name.
Sometimes he capitalized "I" in his poems,
   sometimes he did not.
He did, however, as far as I can determine,
   always capitalize "God,"
      and any pronoun referring to God,
         and any synonyms for God.
Second things second:
I believe the poet's prayer
   ("may I be I...")
      is the true contemplative photographer's prayer.
Not "may I become great."
Not "may my work be regarded by others as beautiful."
The Cummings prayer—
   our prayer—
      simply goes "may I be I."
May my photography be my photography
   and no one else's.
May my eye see as my eye has been given to see
   and may that be the vision
      that I leave as the legacy of my work with camera,
         of my play with life.
May I offer to the world
   what is my most authentic offering—
      clearly, essentially, purely mine—
         with equal parts of gratitude, humility,
            and, in the largest sense, love.

Kisses

One regret, dear world,
that I am determined not to have
when I am lying on my deathbed
is that I did not kiss you enough.
Hafiz of Shiraz

This Persian mystic and poet calls to me
    across the span of seven hundred years,
        nudging me, urging me.
"Before death calls you,
    make sure you plant plenty of smooches
        on the earth itself.
Cherish creation.
Hold dear the days.
Caress that which is caressable.
Nuzzle that which invites nuzzling.
Nestle close to life.
Make time to enfold and be enfolded.
Be lavish with your love."
The words of Hafiz remind me of my own deathbed,
    and the numbered days I have between now and then,
        and the unnumbered kisses that are mine to give,
            if I only will.

Every Blade

Every blade of grass has its angel
that bends over it and whispers,
"Grow, grow."
The Talmud

I came across this quotation several years ago.
I've always thought it innocently playful,
   like the mental image it conjures.
A tiny sprite leaning over every blade,
   bobbing to and fro,
      a miniature cupped hand to its miniature mouth.
A chorus of elfin voices softly repeating
   "grow...grow...grow...grow"
      until it sounds like a high-pitched "ommmmm."
Blades of grass rousing themselves,
   stretching themselves,
      reaching upward.
All a bit fanciful, I'd say.
A bit over the edge.
And yet...
Is that image much more over the edge,
   when you get right down to it,
      than the image of the deep, rich color of green,
         rather than no color at all ever being created?
Any more over the edge
   than the amazing molecular structure
      that goes into every single blade of grass?
Any more over the edge
   than how each blade is a photosynthesis factory,
      turning sunlight into chemical energy
         in a surprisingly complex way?
Any more over the edge
   than how each blade innately knows
      when to come to life each spring,
         when to return to rest each fall?
Maybe creation itself is one breathtakingly enormous angel,
   whispering, "Go ahead, grow."

Apologies

If you are going to do something tonight
that you'll be sorry for tomorrow morning,
sleep late.
Henry Youngman

I did something for the last two months
   that I am sorry for today.
I didn't post.
I knew I wasn't posting, and I knew it had been awhile,
   but I tried not to think about how long it had been.
Then someone called my office yesterday and asked,
   "Is Jim okay?
      He hasn't posted on The Contemplative Photographer
         since May 7th!
            Has something happened to him?"
Nothing special has happened to me.
I vacationed.
I worked.
But mostly I devoted myself to a new blog
   that's called "The Thoughtful Caregiver."
It also uses my writing and my photography,
   but it's especially designed
      to support and encourage family caregivers.
It took longer to start than I imagined,
   and it required more of my creative energies than I anticipated.
But now "Thoughtful" is up and running
   and now I'm ready to return to "Contemplative."
I won't be posting with the fixed regularity
   that I've committed to with the other blog,
      but I will be posting here more often
         and with more consistency.
I promise.

Wholly Infused

How wholly infused with God
is this one big word
we call the world.
John Muir

It is easy for me
  to tire of the words of theologians.
I embarrass myself to put that in writing.
Sometimes I even tire of words from scripture.
That embarrasses me even more.
Then, every now and again,
  a man like John Muir comes along.
Born in 1838, and never graduating from college,
  he was a ferry operator, sheepherder,
   bronco buster, and industrial engineer
    before becoming one of the greatest naturalists
       in U.S. history.
Using mostly one-syllable words,
  John Muir says simply and freshly
   what is, for me, divine truth.

The Smallest Things

I discover everywhere in the smallest things
that omnipotent hand which supports
the heavens and the earth,
and which seems as it were in sport
while it conducts the universe.
Francois Fenelon

Fenelon's perfectly stated truth
 forces me to drop my pen
   in homage.

Inspired Garden

I hung out at the Chicago Botanic Garden
  yesterday and today.
The floral variety there is overwhelming—
  all the colors, shapes, sizes, complexities.
How could there be so many?
Why are we on earth showered
  with such extravagant, unnecessary beauty?
During my visit today
  something additional caught my eye
   and made its way into my soul:
  the Garden is prepared with such artistry, such sensitivity.
Each tulip bed is arranged in strikingly complementary colors—
  a vividly bright bed here,
   a study is subtle pastels there.
In one bed half of the flowers are deep purple in color
  and the others are a rich burgundy,
   one strong color playing off the other.
Only after sitting there awhile
  did I see that quiet detail
   some thoughtful spirit had carefully planned:
At the base of these foot-tall plants
  was a blanket of cheerful pansies,
   each of which had three petals of the same purple color
    and two of the same burgundy hue.
Why do I write of this?
Because I believe we are at our best
  when we take that which is God-given
   and combine it lovingly and joyfully
    with that which is humanly inspired,
     our humanly inspired.
I believe that may be when
  God is at God’s best too.

Noise

In The New Yorker this week
   there's a short piece about Michael Holleran,
      "the only Carthusian living in New York City."
Carthusian monks usually live in silent monasteries,
   shut off from the world.
They obey a rule that calls for no speaking,
   except for emergencies, while chanting in worship,
      and for a few hours of quiet conversation on Mondays.
Father Holleran left the cloistered life after nineteen years
   because he "wanted to catch up with the modern world."
Here is the point I am getting to:
   he reported that the noise of New York City life
      did not bother him.
"The battle," he said, "is in defeating the noise inside you."
His truth is my truth.
Doing something about the noise inside me takes work,
   real work.
Often I don't do this work well,
   and the noise ricochets inside my head.
It's not a pretty sound.
I do wish, however, to take slight issue
   with the Carthusian father on one point.
I don't believe that defeating the noise within,
   as if in militant combat,
      is the only way to proceed.
I believe that sometimes the racket within
   can fade quite noticeably,
      and even drop away altogether,
   without there having to be a battle to overcome it.
I believe an invitation to let the noise go
   can also be effective.
It's true: the noise doesn't always disappear
   when that invitation is sounded.
But many, many times it does
   when I intentionally, lovingly, slowly,
      and, yes, quietly,
         spend time in fertile places
   with my camera resting lightly in my hands
      while it touches gently my forehead and my nose.
And my soul.

Silence

The fruit of silence is tranquility.
Arabic proverb

Silence most often surrounds me as I photograph.
I’m thinking now of kneeling in front of
   a bed of gently swirling poppies,
      waiting for them to come to rest.
I’m thinking of standing beside
   a glassy pond at sunrise,
       unsure where earth and sky parted,
         and not needing to know.
I’m remembering planting myself on a stone outcropping
   as the sun opened the Grand Canyon below me,
      knowing that words would only diminish
         what was unfolding in front of my eyes.
Such silence is not intentionally practiced.
It is just the result
   of becoming attuned to that which is around,
      of becoming present to that which lies before.
The resulting photographs are a product of that silence,
   and equally they help produce that silence,
      both in that moment and later moments.
I cannot explain this.
I only know it happens.

Openings

Perhaps they are not stars,
but rather openings in heaven
where the love of our lost ones pours through
and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
Eskimo proverb

On this Easter morning
   this proverb speaks to me
      with great hope.

Simple

Is!
Parmenides

The mystical Greek philosopher
   who lived and worked in 5th century Italy
      could not have stated his wonder any more simply.
In English his entire statement is made up
   of a vowel, a consonant, and an exclamation point.
My interpretation is this:
Time is!
The universe is!
This solar system is!
Our earth is!
This life is!
This moment is!
When we are aware in our aliveness,
   and alive in our awareness,
      then each of these statements deserves,
         even more, requires,
            an exclamation point.

Being Coaxed

A few days ago the morning was warm and damp.
As I dressed to go to my office,
   I chose clothes that coordinated with mud,
      for I felt the urge to photograph daffodils.
I have photographed them before, of course,
   singly, in pairs, in groups.
But this time I wanted to photogragh, not daffodils,
   but daffodil-ness.
Not what a daffodil looks like
   but what one feels like.
Not its external structure so much
   as something of its created essence.
I photographed two hours in a morning drizzle,
   then another two hours under late afternoon clouds.
I knelt and sat in wet mulch and mud
   most of that time.
I had hundreds of daffodils from which to choose,
   but in my four hours of lying and sitting
      there was only enough time
         to be with seven or eight flowers.
I wish I could say that I photographed daffodil-ness,
   but I don't believe that happened.
Oh, I have images.
But the essence of daffodil vibrancy, daffodil joy,
   daffodil poignancy, daffodil meaning?
I'm afraid my camera and I fell short.
Fortunately, my craving for daffodil-ness remains,
   and for a few days, daffodils will too.
Each time I see one,
   it seems to be encouraging me, coaxing me.
Who am I to resist?

This Creature Too

Every creature is a glimmering,
glistening mirror of Divinity.
Hildegard of Bingen

As a nun, visionary, and writer
   who lived in the twelfth century,
      Hildegard absolutely knew:
Every creature shines with divinity.
Every creature radiates sacredness.
Every creature reflects its Creator.
Every single creature.
That includes grandsons,
   freshly born yesterday,
      freshly reflecting today.

Unuttered Words

A hushed heart hears
the unuttered word.
Sri Aurobindo

Unuttered words are everywhere around us.
They hang beside each maple leaf in autumn.
They lie at the trunk of every bare tree
   that stands quietly in snow.
They rest inside every spring bud that ever formed.
Unuttered words speak silently
   in the pinks that announce certain sunrises,
      in the golds that accompany harvest evenings,
         in the yellows of every perfect daffodil
            (as if there were any other kind).
Unuttered words, the Indian poet wrote,
   need a hushed heart to hear them.
A stilled mind.
A quieted soul.
I believe there is a particular sense
   in which a carefully and lovingly held camera
      does something quite similar:
   it registers unuttered words
      that are constantly being formed.
It is a privilege of a hushed photographer
   and a speechless camera
      to become together the midwife
         that helps these unuttered words come to life.

Rich

We are surrounded
by a rich and fertile mystery.
Henry David Thoreau

For two years, two months, and two days
   Thoreau lived alone in a tiny self-built cabin
      in a woods on the edge of Walden Pond.
The pond was small: 61 acres.
The woods were hardly virgin:
   many trees had been cut for lumber twenty years before.
A few hundred yards away ran a well-used railroad track.
You could easily walk to town from there.
Still, it was in these surroundings that Thoreau
   wrote about being surrounded by "a rich and fertile mystery."
What an evocative combination of words!
So different from the adjectives we commonly expect
   to be placed in front of the word "mystery" these days.
But from experience Thoreau knew
   that mystery could be life-affirming, life-giving, life-enhancing.
He knew that mystery could hold Mystery.
Anywhere.
Everywhere.

They're Prayers

Be still, my soul,
these great trees are prayers.
Rabindranath Tagore

I found my way to a spot in very rural Colorado
   that I had read about in a guidebook.
Forgotten places almost no one knows about:
   that was the theme of the book.
I drove many miles down deserted gravel roads.
Leaving my car next to an old fence,
   I hiked on trails so unused they were hard to see.
Finally I came to a solitary aspen grove, almost perfectly round.
I walked slowly beneath that canopy of branches.
I sat down in the center of that whispering arboreal community.
Soon I was lying flat on my back.
I brought the camera to my eye.
In silent stillness, the trees were not like prayers--
   they were prayers.
Prayers of praise for life.
Prayers of gratitude for life.
Prayers of love of life.
Upward-reaching prayers.
Fully grounded prayers.
When it came time for me to leave,
   something of these prayers went with me.
They are with me still.

A Talk

The girl was sitting in front of an art shop,
   talking with animation to a kindly old man who sat facing her.
I had paused during my afternoon walk in Assisi.
Such expression!
Such energy driving their words!
Their enthusiasm overflowed.
When I asked permission to photograph while they spoke,
   the white-haired gentleman readily agreed.
I sat on the pavement fifteen feet away and photographed quietly
   as their spirited dialogue continued.
They pressed their points to one another with great conviction.
Photography done, I stepped forward to thank them
   for allowing me this privilege.
"Very welcome," the man smiled.
As I turned to continue my walk, he suddenly said,
   "Do you know what we talk about?"
I said no, I did not understand Italian.
"Color!" he said boastfully, his eyes widening.
"This here my art studio,
   and my granddaughter says she will one day be
      an artist just like me.
So she tells me about her favorite colors, the best colors,
   what makes them best.
She talked most about all the different yellows she likes.
My granddaughter, she feels her colors!"

She feels her colors, indeed!
That's not a bad way to grow up, grow ripe, grow old.
Not a bad way to live.
Not a bad way to photograph either.

Our Time on Earth

What is our life on earth,
if not disovering, becoming conscious of,
penetrating, contemplating, accepting,
loving this mystery of God,
the unique reality that surrounds us,
and in which we are immersed
like meteorites in space?

Carlo Carretto

Indeed, what is our life on earth
   if not doing such things
      at least part of the time we’re here?
For me, Carretto’s words issue
   a continual wake-up call.
So much of the time
   I spend large parts of my days
      formulating my life on this earth
         by other standards:
   using my time “well,”
      getting projects done and done right,
         figuring out what lies ahead,
            protecting myself against eventualities.
My gerunds convict me:
   “using,” “getting,” “protecting.”
Corretto’s gerunds are entirely different:
   “becoming conscious,” “contemplating,” “loving.”
While I too easily focus on my small world,
   Carretto invites us to spend our time on earth
      pondering “the unique reality which surrounds us,
   and in which we are immersed
       like meteorites in space.”
He doesn’t tell us how to do that.
I believe one important way,
   one unbeatable way,
      is to take the time to see,
         every day.
To really, really see.

Again

I had been here before.
Last December 6th, to be exact.
That day’s entry in this photoblog demonstrates this.
A couple of mornings ago I stood in the same place
   where I stood when it was a different season.
There was much less color two days ago
   than ten weeks ago.
But who’s to say the present colors
   are any less notable,
      any less memorable,
         any less lovely in their own way?
Fewer signs of life are seen here today.
But who’s to say that signs of life
   have anything at all to do
      with the reality of life,
         the underlying sureness of life?
A hint of mystery was there in December,
   and it also crouches here in February.
“Created Wonder” it called itself then.
It goes by the same name today.

Hoarfrost

A cold holds me hostage.
Last night I slept half sitting up
   in order to breathe more easily.
Opening the window shades this morning,
   I saw what I feared I would see:
      the weather forecast had been correct.
A heavy fog waited outside.
Hoarfrost hung everywhere.
There was nothing to decide
   because there was no question what I would do.
I showered, dressed, slung my camera over my shoulder,
   and drove a short distance into the country.
I trudged through drifts deeper than my boots.
I knelt in snow banks to get closer
   to what I wanted to inspect.
I stopped time after time
   and listened to the clear silence,
      interrupted only by the click of my shutter.
Walking in the dampness and snow and fog,
   surrounded by the day’s mysterious wrapping,
      did more good for me than staying at home in bed.
Morning cold can be good medicine for colds in the morning.

Nothing Else

As to me, I know
of nothing else but miracles.
Walt Whitman

Autumn morning:
   miracle.
Diaphonous fog:
   miracle.
Color-drenched trees:
   miracle.
Being given eyes to see this:
   miracle.
Being given the privilege of photographing this:
   nothing else but miracle.

Self-appointed Inspector

For many years I was the self-appointed
inspector of snowstorms and rainstorms
and did my duty faithfully,
though I never received payment for it.
Henry David Thoreau

I’ve become a self-appointed inspector too.
Many of us have.
For me it all began one Saturday morning,
   after receiving a surprise birthday gift the evening before:
      my first good camera, a Nikkormat.
I appointed myself to inspect a bed of chrysanthemums
   in a nearby public park.
Thirty-six exposures, one pretty much like the next.
In time I went on to inspect
   hundreds of varieties of flowers, jillions of weeds,
         a gazillion trees, and a landscape or two.
I’ve single-handedly inspected
   sand, stones, rocks, boulders,
      streams, rivers, lakes, oceans,
   fields, plains, deserts, valleys,
      paths, roads, lanes, labyrinths,
   clouds, sky, rain, snow, ice,
      and my full allotment of dandelions.
All faithfully inspected, just like Thoreau,
   all self-appointed, like Thoreau,
      and all without payment, as with Thoreau.
Except, as any contemplative photographer knows,
   the payment in reality has always been there,
      and it’s been sizable.
Quite sizable.

Staying in the World

When I wake up in the morning
I can't decide whether to enjoy the world,
or improve the world;
that makes it difficult to plan the day.
E. B. White

The contemplative photographer faces the same dilemma.
Shall I spend this time cheek-to-cheek with my camera
   seeking and recording the templed aspects
      of this grand experiment called creation,
         this grand drama known as life on earth?
Or shall I be on the lookout for those images
      that challenge more than soothe,
         that prick more than pacify?
My belief is that the contemplative photographer
   is called to do both,
      sometimes in different images,
         sometimes within the same image.
An evocative celebration of creation’s beauty
   is also a plea to preserve it.
A visual homage to sacredness
   is also a call to honor its existence.
With that understanding,
      any of us can plan our days
         with our cameras nestled next to us
            without needing to think about it.
What is there to enjoy, we enjoy.
What is there to improve, we work toward improving.
That makes for a pretty full day.

An Open Letter

One cannot help but be in awe
when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity,
of life, of the marvelous structure of reality.
It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend
a little of this mystery each day.
Albert Einstein

Dear Al,
I feel like taping a gold star
   on your frumpy sweater!
It’s great that you, you of all people,
   step forward to validate the contemplation of mystery.
Long I have pictured you holding a stubby piece of chalk,
   scribbling impossibly complex equations
      that crawled the length of a classroom wall.
You’ve been the poster child for world-class
   intellectuality and rationality.
And then I read your words urging us to be contemplative,
   to meditate on the mysteries of life and eternity.
What an unexpected affirmation
   for this very different way of being and doing!
But, Al, I proceed to your second sentence
   and suddenly I want to twist your Einsteinian nose
      a solid quarter turn.
For you turn right around and tell us to
   “comprehend a little of this mystery each day.”
Comprehend?!
Mysteries like this are not meant to be comprehended!
They’re meant to be pondered,
   brooded upon,
      meditated about.
Contemplation isn’t about assigning answers.
It’s about sidling up next to the unanswerable
   while noticing what happens to your perspective
      about life and reality and eternity as you spend time there.
Take, for example, this image that beckoned to me
   not long ago in Death Valley.
I cannot explain it, nor do I want to.
I cannot say I understand it,
   even though I was right there
      when it suddenly leapt into my camera.
I don’t believe I’m supposed to comprehend it.
I believe I’m mostly invited simply to open to it.
That’s all I wanted to communicate, Al.

Quietly,
A sometime contemplative photographer

Mysteries

Talk of mysteries!
Think of our life in nature—
daily to be shown matter,
to come into contact with it—
rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks!
the solid earth! the actual world!
the common sense! Contact! Contact!
Henry David Thoreau

Rocks!
Trees!
Solid earth!
Thoreau called these “mysteries”
   as he walked the woods of Maine
      one hundred and fifty years ago.
I followed him to Maine three months back.
For days in succession
   I witnessed firsthand his exclamation points.
Stones!
Peeling tree trunks!
Moss-covered ground!
What Thoreau experienced as he ambled,
   and then brought to life in words,
      is what others of us experience as we amble,
         and then attempt to summon to life in images.
Rocks!
Trees!
Water!
Ground!
Veritable mysteries.

Breeze

Let mystery have its place in you;
do not be always turning up
your whole ploughshare of self-examination,
but leave a little fallow corner in your heart
ready for any seed the wind may bring,
and reserve a nook of shadow for the passing bird;
keep a place in your heart for the unexpected guest,
an altar for the unknown God.
Henri Amiel

There was a time in my early life—
   not early early, just early—
      when I would have scoffed at Amiel’s words.
“Make a place for mystery?!
We’re placed here to figure things out!”
My world was too small to make room for mystery.
And I was too small to give it room in me.
Nowadays I cannot imagine living
   without a huge chunk of mystery.
I have come to feel that knowing is overrated—
   too often it limits and confines.
Not knowing throws wide open
   the windows and doors of my days.
What would I do without that breeze?

Ordinary

A wonderful Zen saying goes like this:
   “Unformed people delight in the gaudy
      and in novelty.
   Cooked people delight in the ordinary.”
I would not dare to call myself a cooked person
   in the Zen Buddhist sense of that expression.
So many photographers are much more fired than I.
But yesterday I walked out on a wooden pier
   over a small lake in central Florida
      where I was visiting my weakening, aging father.
I stood alone on the wooden planks,
   looking down at the dark water.
Elliptical ripples,
   reflected clouds,
      peeping sun.
Nothing more.
Delightful.

Expressing the Inexpressible

After silence, that which comes nearest
to expressing the inexpressible is music.
Aldous Huxley

This much I know:
   words fall far short
      when it comes to expressing the inexpressible.
Human language can only feebly point in that direction.
Human words can make the tiniest of starts,
   saying, “Here’s a hint of a hint.”
Ultimately, however, words are constitutionally
   not up to the task.
The very sentences to which I resort here
   turn embarrassingly mute.
I believe, like Huxley,
   that music comes closer to being that voice.
But I know, deep inside,
   far beyond any other knowing,
      that pure silence comes closest of all.
That’s why from time to time
   I must wrap myself around my camera.
The quiet of photography
   and the silence of the finished photograph
      are eloquent in the way that surpasses all words.
Time after time my camera says, “Shhhh!”
I do my best to obey.