The landscape shifts with each day's passing. Colors change. I forget my camera, make a note to take it next time. When I return, leaves have fallen. It's slow, the change, but daily. Each day is like the last, but subtly different. It's how I hope to be, and for the better.
I spent the early part of Sunday morning with my camera in hand. I drove around and walked around and rested and thought about all the things for which I'm grateful. Sunday mornings have their own particular variety of quiet. An hour of solitude on a Sunday morning is worth every minute. An hour with my camera is worth, maybe, more.
On the return home the lines of Ezra Pound's "The Garret" came to me, words that remind me to be grateful for small things.
by Ezra Pound
Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.
Dawn enters with little feet
like a gilded Pavlova
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness
the hour of waking together.