While spending a quiet afternoon sorting through photographs,I came across this image. We were in a small town in Cornwall and while the others walked ahead, I tried to shoot as much as I could. Later when I took a closer look I noticed the name Michael painted on the foundation of the building and the song started in my head. The building appears to be a church because of the cross atop the wire steeple, but I really don’t know if that’s the case. Since my memory is too crowded with junk, there’s little room for important things like the names of towns, so I will probably never know for sure. Unless one of you kind readers lives or visits near the western tip of Cornwall somewhere near Penzance and Mousehole. The photo makes me feel hopeful as if Michael had made his journey safely.
Sometimes life is frenetic in the south. Mostly because we let little things gain importance and overwhelm us. Rather than seek peace and quiet, I’d prefer a visit back home to New York. Sometimes I honestly miss the taxis and even the pigeons ( as long as they maintain a respectful distance).People expect New York to be fast paced and overgrown because that’s its reputation. But, though the pace in the city is the composite of emotion, energy, and possibility, it creates a pulse that lets you know you are alive and that at any moment you might find yourself traveling in a new direction . Inspiration and wonder thrive while its sounds, sights, and rhythm revive the soul.
My ship floats serenely, silently sailing on imagination and gentle breezes. We only wait for the moment fireflies appear to guide our journey.
Early Saturday morning, sunshine reached tentatively through the blinds. Unable to light the room, it created soft patterns at the window that begged to be shot in black and white.Hopefully, the sun will regain her strength and reappear consistently.