Only two more days until the first official day of spring. I’m already in a daze of joy from the abundant dandelions, leaf buds, and sunshine.
Enjoy the season, wherever you are.
The world is so full of a number of things,
I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.
–Robert Louis Stevenson, “Happy Thought” (From A Child’s Garden of Verses)
Photo walks are when I pick up my camera, take a walk to some familiar place, and go looking for photos. I have done it for years now–my first photo-walk photos were taken on a camera that stored the pics on floppy disks. The photos I take on these walks have never been spectacular, just glimpses of ordinary things that seem extraordinary at the time, such as a crane resting on the river, or the reflection of leaves on a windowpane…
A childish imp with rusty fingers….
A lavender and green ladder of flowers to the sky…
The shape and rhythm of raindrops sprinkling the canal…
The dancing speckled emerald glow of sunlight filtering through wind-kissed leaves…
Balloons mimicking the sky and puffy white clouds…
And lots of other little, ordinary things.
Photos are not the purposes of a photo walk but a mean to the ends of reconnecting with my past, getting in touch with my environment, rekindling my creative juices, and meditating. The camera is just an excuse to reflect on my environment and exercise my creative eye.
The best part is that during and after one of these walks, my mind feels extraordinarily clear, calm, and peaceful. I highly recommend you create your own ritual that helps you meditate and create.
All photos by: Me
All the materials of a poem
Are lying scattered about, as in this garden
The lovely lumber of Spring.
All is profusion, confusion: hundred-eyed
The primulae in crimsion pink and purple,
Golden at the pupil;
prodigal the nectarine and plum
That fret their petals against a rosy wall.
Flame of the tulip, fume of the blue anemone,
White Alps of blossom in the giant pear-tree,
Peaks and glaciers, rise from the same drab soil.
Far too much joy for comfort:
The images that hurt because they won’t connect.
No poem, no possession, therefore pain.
And struggling now to use
These images that bud from the bed of my mind
I grope about for a form,
As much in the dark, this white and dazzling day,
As the bulb at midwinter; as filled with longing
Even in this green garden
As those who gaze from the cliff at the depths of sea
And know they cannot possess it, being of the shore
And severed from that element for ever.
— “The Images that Hurt” by W.H. Auden
How I Would Paint Happiness
Something sudden, a windfall,
a meteor shower. No –
a flowering tree releasing
all its blossoms at once,
and the one standing beneath it
unexpectedly robed in bloom,
transformed into a stranger
too beautiful to touch.
— Lisel Mueller, “Imaginary Paintings,” Alive Together: New And Selected Poems
But listen to me. For one moment
quit being sad. Hear blessings
dropping their blossoms
— Jalal-al-Din Rumi