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.