Sunday, April 8, 2018


After a long absence 
from blogging, I am returning 
with a new blog that will be devoted
primarily to my explorations in photography.

My new blog can be accessed by
clicking on

Saturday, November 5, 2016


Like many other days this fall,
I left early this morning and drove northward
to the Blue Ridge mountains.  Give me a day like this, 
my hiking boots, and my camera, and there is no happier man on earth.

While my destination was the Eastatoe Valley, 
I stopped by one of my favorite spots, Pinnacle Lake, 
which is located below Table Rock Mountain. The sun was
still relatively low at that point and there was hardly any wind, 
all of which created perfect conditions for catching wonderful reflections in the lake.

This patch of woods was especially beautiful, 
and it reminded me of a large, abstract impressionist painting.

I often find that looking up through 
the trees, especially when the leaves and limbs
are backlit, provides lovely perspectives which are easy to miss.

The fields and forests of the Eastatoe Valley
are beautiful in any season, but they are especially vibrant in the fall.

The people who settle in this valley
tend to be rugged individuals.  This is 
a perfect spot to live for those who want to
live the simple life in a simple cottage, 
surrounded by the beauty of the natural world.

Look in any direction, 
and you're sure to find something magical . . .

. . . perhaps the textured, colorful woods of November . . .

. . . or a trail like this one that leads one through a beautiful forrest . . .

. . . to the peace and tranquility of Twin Falls.

Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.

W.B. Yeats, The Land of the Heart's Desire

Monday, October 31, 2016


I spent yesterday 
walking various trails of the Blue Ridge Mountains, 
which are always resplendent in the colors of late October.
This image is of a colorful cove of Lake Sequoyah, near Highlands, North Carolina

When walking through the woods, 
we usually look straight ahead or to the sides.  
Over the years, however, I've discovered that some 
of them most wonderful sights can only be seen by looking up.
I love the abstract patterns created by tree limbs from this angle.

There are many large lakes in the Blue Ridge Mountains,
but one also stumbles upon tranquil small ponds like this one off the beaten path.

I'm especially attracted to the beautiful abstract designs found
 in nature.  This image is a reflection of some of the autumn foliage in a slow- 
moving section of the Chattooga River, just to the west of Highlands, North Carolina.

This is a stretch of the North Fork of the Chattooga River.

As I walked along a trail
that followed the Chattooga River, 
I came upon a man and his two sons out for a day of fishing.

This was one of the trails I walked yesterday, 
a four-mile loop around Lake Fairfield, near Sapphire, North Carolina.

Looking across Lake Fairfield, I could see 
the sheer rock face of Old Bald Mountain, wrapped in the warm colors of autumn. 

On one of the high look-out points between Highland and Cashiers
North Carolina, I had a great view of the lush foliage that saturated the valley below.

Just outside the town of Highlands, my eyes fell upon 
this little section of woods, which reminded me of an impressionist painting.

A section of woods between Highland and Cashiers

On the edge of Lake Fairfield, with Old Bald Mountain in the distance

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.  Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.  The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.
John Muir, The Mountains of California 

Sunday, September 25, 2016


Off on my morning walk 
on the trails through the South Carolina
Botanical Gardens, accompanied by my camera.  
I keep thinking that the butterflies should have disappeared by now, 
but it seems that only the swallowtails that are diminishing in number each 
week.  The monarchs and fritillaries are still in abundance, and I'm still finding
many in the caterpillar stage.  So wonderful, this seasonal unfolding of beauty—of new life.

Shortly after making the image 
of the Monarch in the header photo,
I came across this Great Spangled Fritillary
enjoying breakfast on top of a zennia.  It was the tip of his 
wing catching the early morning  sunlight that caught my eye.

Down the trail a bit, 
I came across some of the last 
cherry tomatoes growing in a small garden.

This is a Gulf Fritillary, 
also munching on one of the 
many zinnias (which are great for
attracting butterflies).  Whenever possible, 
I try to photograph butterflies against a dark 
background in order to highlight their colors and designs.

Another Monarch.
The wing designs and
color placements are amazing.
Notice how the white dots on the 
edges of the wings are matched with white dots on the head and neck.

This image is not 
as crisp as I would like, 
but you can see that I discover
other types of weird creatures on my walks.

This is the back side
of a Gulf Fritillary feasting on a zennia.

 Another Monarch

A Few Parting Words
The Tao Te Ching
(translation by Ursula K. Le Guin)

The Way bears them;
power nurtures them;
their own being shapes them;
their own energy completes them.
And not one of the ten thousand things
fails to hold the Way sacred
or to obey its power.

Their reverence for the Way
and obedience to its power
are unforced and always natural.
For the Way gives them life;
its power nourishes them,
mothers and feeds them,
completes and matures them,
looks after them, protects them.

To have without possessing,
do without claiming,
lead without controlling:
this is mysterious power.


Wednesday, September 21, 2016


Gleaning some words from old masters
I make my own poems.


Poetry is not about language.
It's about something.

Joel Oppenheimer

Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
Once you know my poems are not poems
Then we can talk poetry.


Each of these quotes appears on one of 
the opening pages of While We've Still Got Feet
a 2005 collection of poems by David Budbill.

In the past few days, I've been reading some of the work of poet David Budbill. Inspired by the hermit-poets of ancient China, Budbill left the cities more than four decades ago and moved to a remote hermitage on the top of Judevine Mountain in Vermont.  For the next thirty-five years, he spent most of his time there, reading poetry, writing poetry, playing his flute, and tending to his land.  Having read some of his poetry, it's clear that he was also seeking to live a simple, uncomplicated life that was in harmony with the ancient wisdom of his Asian mentors.  

In the collection of poems referenced above — While We've Still Got Feet — Budbill mentions the work of more than a dozen Asian poets or philosophers, including Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Ryokan, and Han Shan.  There is also a poem which celebrates the Tao Te Ching:

                                              The Way is Like Language

                               The Way is like language.  The more you use it, 
                               the more it responds, becomes resilient, pliable,
                               lithe, liquid, smooth, supple, available, eager.

                               Go ahead, do anything you want to it.  You can't 
                               hurt it.  It is far more powerful than you are.
                               It's there to serve and dominate you all at once.

                               Surrender to it and it will be your servant.
                               It is your tool, your toy, your master.

I find the Tao or "The Way" running through many of Budbill's poems.  He is clearly a poet who has given most of his life to learning how to live simply and mindfully, how to live beyond the win-lose conventions of American culture, and how to live more in the body and less in the chatterbox arena of the mind.  On this latter point — body versus mind — I especially like this poem:

                                 This Shining Moment in the Now

               When I work outdoors all day, every day, as I do now, in the fall
               getting ready for winter, tearing up the garden, digging potatoes,
               gathering the squash, cutting firewood, making kindling, repairing
               bridges over the brook, clearing trails in the woods, doing the last of
               the fall mowing, pruning apple trees, taking down the screens,
               putting up the storm windows, banking the house — all these things,
               as preparation for the coming cold . . .

               when I am every day all day all body and no mind, when I am

               physically , wholly and completely in this world with the birds,
               the deer, the sky, the wind, the trees . . .

               when day after day I think of nothing but what the next chore is,

               when I go from clearing woods roads, to sharpening a chain saw,
               to changing the oil in a mower, to stacking wood, when I am
               all body and no mind . . .

               when I am only here and now and nowhere else — then, and only

               then, do I see the crippling power of mind, the curse of thought,
               and I pause and wonder why I so seldom find
               this shining moment in the now.

                  From While We've Still Got Feet, Copper Canyon Press, 2023.

Here's to the shining moment of the now.  To quote a line which lends itself to the title of this Budbill collection, "let's go dancing/while we've still/got feet."

Sunday, September 18, 2016


If the landscape reveals one certainty, it is that the extravagant gesture is the very stuff of creation.  After the one extravagant gesture of creation in the first place, the universe has continued to deal exclusively in extravagances, flinging intricacies and colossi down aeons of emptiness, heaping profusions on profligacies with ever-fresh vigor.  The whole show has been on fire from the word go.  I come down to the water to cool my eyes.  But everywhere I look I see fire; that which isn't flint is tinder, and the whole world sparks and flames.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek 

What do I make of all this texture?  What does it mean about the kind of world in which I have been set down?  The texture of the world, its filigree and scrollwork, means that there is a possibility of beauty here, a beauty inexhaustible in its complexity, which opens to my knock, which answers in me a call I do not remember calling, and which trains me to the wild and extravagant nature of the spirit I seek.
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf.  We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what's going on here.  Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, of it comes to that, choir the proper praise.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

If you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then since the world is in fact planted with pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days.  It is that simple.  What you see is what you get.
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek 

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them.  The least we can do is try to be there.
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Unless all ages and races of men have been deluded by the same mass hypnotist (who?), there seems to be such a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous.
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek 

We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery . . .
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek 

Tuesday, September 13, 2016


It is always tempting to think of oneself as essentially alone in this world — alone in birth, alone in life, and alone in death.  However comforting this sentiment might be when one is feeling a bit lonely, the truth is that none of us is ever truly alone.  Each and every life is always unfolding in relationship to the unfolding of all other things in existence, both animate and inanimate.  Just as there is a dance between night and day, a dance between grief and joy, a dance between shore and sea, there is an undeniable dance between each of us and the myriad things that lie beyond our control.  We're always in a conversation with everything that happens in our environment, especially those things that command our attention.

This is what poet and philosopher David Whyte has referred to as "the conversational nature of reality,"  and he has written a very fine poem that captures its essence.  Describing his inspiration for the poem in a recent interview on the excellent radio/podcast program On Being, Whyte said this:

[T]his piece is written almost like a conversation in the mirror, trying to remind myself what's first-order.  And we have so many allies in this world, including just the color blue in the sky, which we're not paying attention to, or the breeze, or the ground beneath our feet.  And so this is an invitation to come out of abstraction and back to the world again.  It's called "Everything is Waiting For You."
So here's the poem.  Enjoy. 

                                          Everything is Waiting for You
                                                   (after Derek Mahon)

                               Your great mistake is to act the drama

                               as if you were alone.  As if life
                               were a progressive and cunning crime
                               with no witness to the tiny hidden
                               transgressions.  To feel abandoned is to deny
                               the intimacy of your surroundings.  Surely,
                               even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
                               the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
                               out your solo voice.  You must note
                               the way the soap dish enables you,
                               or the window latch grants you freedom.
                               Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
                               The stairs are your mentor of things
                               to come, the doors have always been there
                               to frighten you and invite you,
                               and the tiny speaker in the phone
                               is your dream-ladder to divinity.

                               Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
                               the conversation.  The kettle is singing
                               even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
                               have left their arrogant aloofness and
                               seen the good in you at last.  All the birds
                               and creatures of the world are unutterably
                               themselves.  Everything is waiting for you.