where I am

Some years ago I worked as a photographer for resorts and magazines in New England. It was my, ahem, job, really, to capture that perfect peak moment of fall, when fall is at it’s most glorious. The big moment. Little did I imagine that West Virginia’s fall finery would even shame New England. The New River Gorge is simply a breathtaking spectacle of gold, orange, red. I still sort of have this weird pressure in fall, and can’t help myself but watch and wait for, and sometimes document, fall’s big show. Green to gold, orange, red, rust and brown. This year however, I was otherwise occupied during fall’s peak, helping family up north. Plus, we had moved in August, and partially due to some of those family needs, just hadn’t really had a chance for much of anything, much less to really settle in to our enchanting little house in the woods.

But I’m home now, and autumn is now much closer to winter. The path I walk outside the door into the forest has a thick, moist layer of leaves, twigs, running cedar, moss. Cold rains fall, and one morning even snow.


The colors are closer to each other, deeper and older. I like how things are growing on and out of other things. It won’t be long before the

leaves are all fallen and the view really opens up. I look forward to really seeing the bones of this place I am in now. I like it better than before when perhaps I looked at the finery, more than the anatomy.










I think it’s odd that we associate spring with creativity. To me, late fall and early winter is where the real juice lies. When all the year’s events filter through us like mulch. When the old trees break apart and feed the new ones.  Do we lose something when we look for answers rather than observe the questions? Even worse when we know what the answer will be? Isn’t the mystery itself pretty wonderful? Right now, give me a dry creek bed, a mossy throne and a few curious companions and I’m happy. Truly.

I’m listening to Lisa Hannigan

Reading Alice Hoffman’s beautiful The Dovekeepers

So moved by author Mona Simpson’s story of her brother, Steve Jobs at his funeral, for a life well-lived (and loved).

(sorry I can’t seem to get the formatting right on this post.)


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