Evening Solace

The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;--
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back--a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie!

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress--
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven
Seeking a life and world to come.

Bronte

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real!  Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.


Longfellow

I don't know what I think of these . . . I don't think Longfellow has got it all figured out, and I don't think Charlotte is as sad as a hurried reading may present her to be.

I enjoy them both.






I need to get out more, more hiking, more remoteness, more distance.

Light and Shadow

As I walked back to the office on a trail, wet with the afternoons rain, I could see my shadow. Behind me, the sun was setting, the sky ahead was dark with the rain clouds which had just passed overhead. It was a golden hour, and I longed my camera. The light was amazing, bright green trees against a dark stormy sky. I turned around, face into the setting sun and stood there soggy, exhausted, cold and warm. The sun was bright and I had to squint to see.

Shadow and light.

Even here on this trail there is a lesson for me.

Shadows . . . when do I see shadows in my life. When do I see shadows? What causes those shadows I see?

Shadows are what I see when something stands between me and the light.

And what of my own shadow? When do I see that?

Only when I look away from the light.

And the further away from the light - the larger the shadows seem, its edges blurred.







But in the light - when I am in and looking toward the light - there is no shadow there.

Mumford and Sons

...and sometimes when you can’t describe a feeling with your own words, it’s almost easier to express in a song. And then, when you get asked about the songs, it’s quite difficult to explain. It’s a conundrum — you don’t want to seem self-indulgent explaining yourself; it’s always awkward. Which is weird again, because it’s never awkward actually singing them. I suppose the song should stand on its own and people draw their own interpretation from the words. But for me, personally, it’s the lyrics that I listen to again and again in a song. I place specific importance on them. I can’t write lyrics unless I really feel them and mean them, which can sometimes be quite frustrating — because if you’re not feeling much at the time, you’re stuck...

~Marcus Mumford

I was recently told to try Mumford and Sons.










I greatly enjoy them. Their lyrics, their music. Even their music videos, the shots and the angles. I find myself wanting to walk thru tall grass, under a dark sky, barefoot in a linen shirt.


I want to live in bookshops and drink in pubs.

I want to walk in the rain and smile at the dawn.

I want to write my heart in a song and play it for the world.

I want my pain and and my joy to be understood.

I want to understand.

I want to help.

I want to share the comfort I've received.





Music lifts me - takes me to places that noting else does. I would like to know why.
















Maybe it's time to move from photography to music . . .

. . . any ideas on entry level instruments

Spring wanderings

Lot of life has happened in the past two weeks, and these pictures fail to tell any sort of coherent story. They are out of order and not even all of them are by me, some are by the talented Mr. Caleb Douglas Ackley. A guy who need's to update his blog more regularly. He borrowed my camera one evening, and it was great looking thru the shots he had left. Seeing how he frames his shots and his subjects.

I got a kick out of his Chuck shots.

Photo by Mr. Caleb Douglas Ackley

Photo by Mr. Caleb Douglas Ackley

Photo by Mr. Caleb Douglas Ackley

Midweek camping and theology in Fred Myers

Ellensburg . . . turn off your lights

Snakes don't blink

"No prophet ever wore a snuggie"

For Dan

For Dan

Road Trip