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.