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Friday, August 23, 2013

sometimes unexpected, light arrives





Sometimes, unexpected, light arrives, a certain quality of light that you'd hoped for, or waited for. It coincides with an interval of time in which you can receive.

And so it was, in my backyard last night after dinner. I'd cooked, the meal was eaten appreciatively, and Rob was doing the dishes. I slipped outside to see what plants needed watering, but quickly went back in for the camera when I spotted this poppy. I'm hoping that Rob will pick it today and work his own magic with it, for there is something lovely and real about it that touches me and that speaks to my summered soul.







I wanted to isolate the flower, show it off, but my backyard is a busy place.







I kept shooting, and this is about when the light started arriving in that rather wonderful way it has at this time of year.









It felt right to lavish my attention on this one flower. Who knows what it might look like by morning?







So then, I sat on the back porch, bottom step, and began looking at the lavatera. The way the pink flowers turn bluish-purple when they're winding down.






We were bathed in light then, the flowers. I.






Some of the flowers were hidden yet, from the light. And yet not. 







The golden light at this time of year. The apples across the yard are in the tree, yellow-green.

And the light rained down and rained down on my small metal bird.










Oh, the sunflowers planted in too-small pots are gangly and messy and drying out, but still, this urge to find the sun, to lean toward it.







There's a rosebush, that's more or less grown as a weed this year, and which has a few blooms on it. Most of the plant died, and so we'd given up on it. But then later, it began to grow a little off from where it began. So we've let it go. We've let it have it's way.







I've loved these little blue flowers all summer. I don't know why, as they're nothing terribly special. They bloom and shrivel up quite quickly. They hang and look a bit bedraggled - that's their forté.







And lastly, the orange dahlia. It was nearly finished, and I picked it, separated it from the healthier looking ones beside it. Held it up to the sun and to the trees.

I think it tells its own story. Of the way things are, the way things can be. How it's possible to feel at the end of a day and at the end of a season. How it's possible to feel when the light bathes us, just shines on us and through us. Regardless.















7 comments:

  1. thanks for adding to the beauty in the world.

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    1. what a nice thing to say. thanks, Pearl.

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  2. I love how you capture the light! I just received "Calm Things" in the mail yesterday and I'm devouring it. I'm looking at things differently now. You are teaching me a new way to see! Thank you! ~Susan

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  3. Shawna, thank you for sharing this extraordinary set of photos. I may have already said it, but your blog is a balm, and I am addicted to it.

    I don't know if anyone still publishes coffee table books, but your images and the words that accompany them would be welcome on any surface in my home.

    Also: I really enjoyed your recent piece in Write (The Writers Union of Canada magazine).

    The best of everything to you,
    Shelley Leedahl

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    Replies
    1. Shelley - wonderful to know your one of my readers. Your comments mean a lot to me - thanks.

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  4. I see a Robert Lemay painting in those poppies!

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