Seeing things through new eyes

As I've gotten more interested in photography, I find myself seeing things differently, or maybe more clearly. I've always appreciated the beauty of a sunset, the intricate patterns of clouds, and the changing light at dusk and dawn. Now I spend more time studying these things. Composing photographs in my mind even if the camera isn't there. I notice tiny drops of dew on delicate flower petals. Mentally I wonder how best to capture the prisms of reflected light. I look at things from different angles viewing the changes in shadows and light and deciding which will give the best contrast. Reflections in pools of water have become treasures to be marveled at.

I'm always looking up. Looking for colors and shapes. Seeking beams of light shining like spotlights through clouds.


(Photos: The sun sets at the end of my road as I arrive home from work. Ominous clouds roil above the pasture.)

No matter what a realist I consider myself, it’s hard not to let the mind wander to fae things when I see a lovely stand of foxglove.

Foxgloves are deeply steeped in folk lore. Some say the origin of the name is folks gloves (folks referring to faeries or magical creatures). Nordic legend has the faeries teaching the fox to ring the fox bells as a warning when hunters approach.

To cut or damage them is to bring bad luck, but to plant them around the door yard will keep the faeries from stealing your children.

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scare could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

...Yeats