Please welcome Lynn Simpson as my guest blogger today. After you enjoy her words and her photographs you can find out more about Lynn in the brief bio at the bottom of the post.
Lifeless leaves in colours of blood and coffee on a dusty footpath crush beneath my worn hikers. I pull my wool hat lower over my ears with one mittened hand, the other grips my camera. Ahead, I know, is a low lying
bridge, over a cheerless pond, just four steps wide and seven steps to the other side.
I’ve been here before, on this trail in this national park close to my home. Been here too, during the times of chirping frogs and singing sparrows.
But today, under a silvery sky, the life sounds seem hushed. And this feels right. As my brother of only a few years longer in life than me, was recently stilled and silenced. His path moved now beyond this world.
My downcast eyes wander to lanky, burnt mustard grasses. I halt, grasp my camera in both hands, adjust the dials, kneel and frame the scene. Click. Reframe. Click. Capture a moment. Now. And then gone.
Gone.
And I wonder, in this moment, what is the point really? A captured moment just changes in time. And is lost. Gone.
Does it make any difference, to do this or that in this moment?
Do I make a difference?
I shake my head, try to clear of it of this melancholy. Fingers seek for tissue in my coat pocket.
Crush of lifeless leaves interrupt, from steps that are not mine.
You must be a pro, he says. I unbend my knees, stand. No, I reply. He is tall, slender, like my brother (my late-brother) with midnight black hair that matches the camera he clutches in bare hands. My friend gave me his camera to try for a day and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing and my pictures look terrible, he tells me, his face crimsoning. Can I see yours? he asks. I show him, am warmed by his delight. How did you capture that from that? He points to the field of littered grasses. It’s about the angles, and the scene, and the light, and the imagination, I tell him. I show him a few tools, a few features and simple ways to set the light, to frame the scene.
He clicks. Reframes. Clicks. Captures a few shots with the new settings.
Wow, he says, his grin infectious. That totally made a difference! Thank you!
There is a wooden bridge that crosses marsh-like waters just up ahead, I tell him. You may want to try there too.
He takes a few steps backwards, on this ginger path, waves a free hand. Great! I want to be able to show my friend later what moments I captured here. Thanks so much! he says.
I watch him turn away and move on. I look down. Auburn and chestnut coloured leaves stir from a light wind. I kneel, position my camera. And click, capturing a new moment.
Lynn J Simpson understands the need for creating spaces for rest, renewal, and transformation both personally and as a Professional Life Coach. Her own journey is rarely without a camera in hand, capturing breathing spaces to share. Her recent publication, Breathing Spaces-a 21 day journal of rest, reflection and renewal is used by individuals and groups to help create healthy mindsets. You can read more of Lynn’s musings on faith, hope and love at Inspiring Hope (lynnjsimpson.com), and connect with her on Facebook and YouTube.
Nature has many lessons to teach us. I heard an interesting story about fear and survival in the wild.
A light snowfall covered the ground during the night. The next morning we stepped out of the house and into a winter wonderland. Tree branches that had been bare sticks the night before were now covered on one side with a layer of white.
This was the first major snowfall of the season. There had been a few that didn’t leave an accumulation, but this one was different.
