Once upon a time there was a little Sapling that graced the winter forest. He so enjoyed looking down into the valley to watch the frenzied bustle of Christmas.

He saw decorations being hung, strands of lights draped on towering trees, with music and the scent of freshly baked cookies wafting through the air.

However, Sapling preferred to celebrate the season in the stillness of the forest.

He never understood what all the fuss was down in the valley. He knew where he sat was perfect and needed no further ornaments. Crystal snowflakes that fell from the sky were all the ornaments he needed. He had no need for additional music for Wind provided an intoxicating melody as it rustled the fallen leaves. He had no need for the sweet scent of cookies for the Pine trees provided an earthy, wild fragrance.

He continued to watch the people in the valley scurry at a frantic pace, while he sat quietly in the glistening snow, as Leaf stopped by to give him a holiday hug.

In the stillness of the forest, Sapling celebrated the holiday season the only way Sapling knew how — simply.

Live in color,

Abby

I was knee deep in cuttings. 

It’s no small task to cut back several perennial beds in the fall, but cut back I did. Until, I noticed the movement of something. It seems I had disturbed a caterpillar, interrupting her burrowing in the leaves. I sensed her annoyance.

Putting down my rake,
I said, “I am so sorry for being a nuisance. Is there any way I can make it up to you.”

“Well” the caterpillar said,
“I watch you everyday with your camera, taking pictures of everything. What about making a photo of me?” 

I responded, “A glamour shot?” 

Her eyes lit up and off we went to my makeshift studio. (a mirror placed in front of a dining room window. Very high tech.)

It’s as if she had done this before. Somewhere in a past life she must have stood in front of Bruce Webers camera. I’m sure of it.
She gracefully moved from pageant pose, hip-tilt, to the ever popular, hair whip. She was definitely a pro. 

Before I brought her back out to the garden,
I asked, “What species are you?”
She wasn’t the usual wooly caterpillar I was familiar with. 

Obviously exhausted from her photo shoot, she went quiet. I did further investigation and found her name: Fuzzy Blonde Caterpillar (Really).

Gently placing her back in the now cleaned garden bed, 
I said, “You know, we have more in common than you think. I’ve been called much worse than fuzzy.”

‘Sleep tight, sweet Fuzzy Blonde Caterpillar.”

Live in color,

Abby

Everything is in flux: a perennial state of becoming.

Has the rush of life made me so impatient that I am missing the intermediate stages?

I watch every new bulbous curve.
I watch the softness of flesh bursting with life.
I watch the elegant sweep of form.
I am your witness.

​Take your time, dear flower. Unfurl yourself in your own sweet time. I am in no rush.

Beauty lies in the unfolding.

Live in color,

​Abby

The morning stillness was interrupted by a shrill geschrei*.

“I won’t be a pappus! I am a water lily.” Cried Pappus*

As he drifted quietly across the pond, he thought how much he enjoyed everything about this place. He liked the sun warming him, he liked the refreshing feel of the water and he liked the protection of the shoreline which comforted him, so he decided to stay.

As Cloud passed overhead, he asked Pappus, “What is this nonsense I hear? You don’t want to be a Pappus? That’s impossible! That is who you are.”

“No!” Pappus said in a very indignant tone. “I am a beautiful water lily and you can’t tell me anything different.”

“Oh sweet Pappus,” as Cloud continues, “You are very much a Pappus, just as I am very much a cloud, and Sky is sky and the Grasshopper is grasshopper. That’s just how life is.”

“Well I’m changing the rules. From now on, please call me Water Lily.” Said Pappus.

Cloud now became concerned and said, “Dear one, we all have come to this strange and remarkable place with a unique job. A job which is imperative to keep the natural order of things humming. It is an honor to have such a job.”

“I don’t care! I’m not listening to you.” As Pappus turned away.

Cloud continued in a firm, yet gentle tone, “I think you are just fearful to become whom you are meant to be. Fear not, dear one, for Nature has a bigger plan for you. You have the most important job of all: to carry your seed, by the lift of wind to places exciting and new. You will rest only when you are ready to take root, so your species can continue to flourish.

And what about all the human children that look to launch their wishes with a puff of breath? Those innocent wishes would never take flight because of your refusal to do what you were born to do.

Make friends with Fear. Ask him why has he come. Give him space. Allow him to be, then miraculously Fear will morph into something else: confidence to become whom you are meant to be. If we all do our jobs, the results will be wondrous. 

See how blue Sky is? 
See how Water flows with ease?
See Crow glide effortlessly across the sky? 
They are all doing their jobs.”

Pappus listened very intently and said, “Yes, I am scared. The sky is so big and vast and I am so small. What will happen to me?”

“Trust, dear one, trust the rhythm of nature and you will become miraculous.” said Cloud.

Pappus lifted itself towards the sky, and was heard repeating, “I trust, I trust,” as Breeze picked him up and carried him off to places exciting and new.
​

Live in color,

Abby
​

* A colorful Yiddish word describing a yell, shout or uproar
​
* The feathery bristles of the dandelion puff ball which functions as a parachute enabling the seed to be carried by the wind.

Bubbles: Spring’s breath of life.

​Before the tender buds, before the heralded arrival of the robins, even before the last snowdrift thaws, spring is most visible on the banks of a mountain pond. 

The fringe of the pond is the first to recognize the change of seasons. Magically, the ice begins to percolate with life. This brisk early spring morning, I have a front row seat to Winter’s loosing grip.

How effortless it seems, this subtle shift of seasons. But, is it truly effortless? Or, is it simply grace that allows the pond’s frozen stillness to slowly, elegantly, perk with renewed aliveness. 

I imagine the fish in the depths of the pond, gathered in schools, sensing this change of seasons, as they collectively fill their gills, blowing a waft of air to the still frozen surface. Their gentle nudge, saying, “it’s time to wake.” 

I often think of Mary Oliver when I’m in nature, especially on a morning like this. What wisdom would she find in this moment? Oh, to sit by this awakening pond with Mary. How engaged and enthusiastic she would be. Yet, I am sure, if she were by my side, she would turn to me to simply say,
​“Pay attention and be in awe.”

​Pay attention and be in awe.

Live in color,

​Abby

I know very little. I think I am so clever, but actually most of the time I’m just fooling myself.

​There is an undeniably mysterious thread that weaves its way through life. Unless I am willing to recognize and accept this mystery, I am in denial.
Case in point: this amaryllis blossom. At first glance it is a showy assemblage of petals, pistils and filaments, all in the peak of their cycle. Upon closer examination, it’s a complete mystery.

Recently, I find more comfort dwelling in the mysterious. I want to discover something new, to see something that I have not seen before. I want to look at form and shadow as leading players not just supporting characters. I want to pierce the membrane of certainty, looking beyond what is, beyond the material to the transcendent.

That is where I find comfort.

​So sit back and enjoy this mystery with me…

And be astonished.

​Live in color,

Abby

Postscript, A special thank you to Mary for my Christmas present, this amaryllis, which I received early December. The directions promised a blooming amaryllis by Christmas. Christmas came and went and nothing. I checked in with the bulb everyday asking what it needed, but no response. Early February I was thinking it was time to pitch the dud bulb. Then one gray day a sprout appeared. Two weeks later, the plant is in full bloom. 

The moral of the story, patience has its rewards.

May 2022 usher in glimmering light, vibrant color and well-needed balance.

May we all remain patient and kind with each other, especially to oneself.

May I continue to make images celebrating natures gentle moments — the divine moments that make life worth living and

May you continue to be intrigued by them.

And remember,

Breathe deeper
Look deeper
And smile often (even if it hurts)

Live in color, 

Abby

With a tremble in her voice, Leaf asked, “Whoo are you?

“Greetings, my name is Ice.”

​“You look a little scary.” said Leaf

​“Oh, sweet Leaf, there is no reason to fear me. Why do you think I look scary?” replied Ice

“Well, continued Leaf, “You come in the dark of night, freeze everything in sight— look at you— you are all sharp and pointy.”

“Oh Leaf, I’m sorry I scare you.”

“So why are you here.” stuttered Leaf.

“I am here, dear Leaf, to teach you the importance of being still. You have worked very hard all season providing shade for the birds, turning light into energy and you even clean the air we breath. You must be exhausted. Now is the time to rest. You job is done.”

With a softened voice Leaf said, “Thank you for recognizing all that I do, and yes, I am a bit tired.”

And so, Ice and Leaf laid quietly together.

Still at last.
​

Live in color,

​Abby

What will be my lasting impression?

​Beach-combing along the Oregon coastline revealed more than sand and stones. Along the ruggedly lush, often otherworldly shoreline I discovered one striking stone imprint after another.

Igneous sediment from ancient volcanic activity paints a frame of brackish sand around each rock. A seemingly featureless rock is then elevated into a work of art.

For centuries, these rocks have been polished by the tides, then tumbled, washed and jostled to shore. Once the stone is nestled on the beach the volcanic sand sweeps and swirls around the nugget painting a stunning, vividly transient pattern. The occasional strand of seaweed, or lost feather, is then added by Mother Nature for compositional interest.

Which made me think: what will be my lasting impression for being tumbled, washed and jostled through life?

Like the humble beach rock, I can only hope my lasting imprint will also be one of endurance and beauty.

Live in color,

​Abby

​And Happy Thanksgiving 

I fought very hard to acquire the land on which I now live. I had to fight equally as hard to save a tree, my sentry.

She’s a tall maple, over 50 feet, rather scrawny and crooked. She leans into the weather with a defiant, bring it on attitude. She rises from the ground just 25 feet from the front of my house. Going against all recommendations to cut her down, because of her proximity to my dwelling, we both remain, defiant.

​For almost 30 years now she has unceremoniously blocked fierce winds, warned me of impending storms with the rattle of her leaves and held her ground. I never regarded her as a potential threat, but as my stalwart sentry.

Last night, under a canopy of stars, I thanked her. 

Two old gals under the stars, both battered, weathered but, against all odds, still standing. We reminisced about the years of storms we endured and now with hindsight, realized it just made us grow our roots deeper and stronger. 

There are days where we are both tired…

​Then there are evenings like these, with our heads in the stars. Both conscious of our similarities and our connected presence. Tonight, how can we feel anything but gratitude for this glorious ride we call life? Bumps and all.

Live in color,

​Abby

Do you have a photo, after years of making images, that you have never shared? The reasons may be many, too personal, not mainstream enough…the list goes on.

I have such an image. My image was made back in my travel days, while visiting Dharamshala, India. This image keeps talking to me. Why is unclear. 

On a crisp March morning I decided to explore the hiking trails of the Tushita Meditation Center, located in the forested hills behind the town where His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama resides.

These hiking trails take a circuitous route through the coniferous hills. I wandered the forest surrounded by towering cedars. It was a place where I could get lost in thought, or better yet free myself from thought completely. 

I believe when one clears the mind, one becomes a receiver. Being still allows ones static to subside, making someone more susceptible to receive the waves of energy rolling in all around us. On that hike I became a high frequency receiver. 

I took the elevated trail, thinking as a photographer, to catch a view. On reflection, it’s curious how I was looking for a reward for the trek up the hill. Is that where I have come, programmed for a payoff?

Ultimately, I found no view. Instead, I stopped at a bend in the trail to just be. Looking up towards the dappled light, then down to more meandering trails, I simply took in the splendor of the moment. There were no distant views, no dreamy landscapes, nothing but time and space. 

Then they appeared.

Two monks, in deliberate step came into view. Click. Then I had a moment. Nothing exciting was going on. However, somehow I knew not to dismiss this moment.

Years later, I still return to this image, wondering why after making thousands of images this particular birds-eye image has never left my consciousness. After much examination, I found a poignancy and simplicity in the photo. This one image conveyed companionship, contemplation and communication with nature — all found at the core of my being.

Another detail arose from this image. Being a gypsy at heart, I find it difficult to stay put. Travel refines me. I need to get lost in order to be found.

Not a bad message from just one image.

So I ask you, do you have a single image with a moment that haunts you? My suggestion, go back and relive that moment. Ask yourself the Why questions. You might be astonished with what you uncover.

Live in color,

Abby

P.S. This post comes out of boredom. Boredom with posting images on social media. In the past few months I seem to be just grinding out images. This post is my attempt to slow down and to re-examine. This re-examination begins by asking those Why questions of myself, by swinging open the doors and windows of what’s left of my creative mind, allowing fresh air to waft through my musty corridors. A sort of spring cleaning for my imagination.

There once was a little girl who was simpatico with the sea. At a very young age, she accepted the water’s unpredictability and understood her moods. She found they both, had much in common. One day our young innocent could be calm and the next, filled with unrest and turmoil, not much different from Sea.

Most of her summer days were spent gliding across Sea’s surface in search of adventure. Sea never disappointed. Sea introduced our heroine to sandbars, unruly currents and the gloom of fog. Each challenging her not to compete, but to comply to Sea’s whims.

​For all her formidable years their relationship flourished. Sea taught her resilience, bravery and, the most important lesson of all, the importance of being buoyant. Fighting against the currents can lead to exhaustion, but floating allowed her to glide through most riptides.

Our little girl is now a seasoned captain of her own ship. She is forever thankful for what Sea has taught her. She visits Sea just a few times a year now, but when she does she returns to being that little girl adrift with her best friend.

Live in color,

​Abby

“I surrender,” said Birch. “Winter, you are the most powerful and formidable force. I bow before you.”

​The day was April 16th. The firewood was stored away. The wicker furniture was cleaned and brought into the screened-in porch and the buds on the trees began to swell with life. The morning air had turned warm and sweet, as the forest grew noisy with the flutter of activity, with its residents re-emerging. Then, in the darkness of night, the clouds rolled in. 

Just when I thought I figured it all out and was so sure what comes next, Mother Nature laughed.

The following morning I woke to pure beauty. Overnight, six inches of heavy, gleaming snow blanketed the landscape. Spring succumbed to Winter, which caused every creature large and small to pause.

Winter reappeared for one final grand display. The meadow was transformed into a pristine, dreamlike setting where the world, in a wink, was silenced by Grace.

​If I am to surrender to anyone or anything, let me surrender to Beauty.

​Live in color,

Abby

Why do I crave the sea?

Is it the raw, untamed elements shifting before my eyes? Or is it the fresh, intoxicating air filling my lungs? For me it’s really about the lack of human mishegas, a special kind of madness only people can manufacture.

There is a simplicity and order to a seascape. Sure, it has its moments of turmoil and unrest, but somehow I have a built-in assurance that balance will return, and it always does.

​Our world has severely lost its balance. I am deeply concerned.

In the hopes of keeping some semblance of sanity, while overwhelmed by the incessant madness, I keep returning to the sea. There I will luxuriate in her pristine beauty while yearning for our world to find its equilibrium. Then I will listen, but more importantly, learn from her unhurried wisdom.

Let there be balance.

Live in color,

​Abby

Its light is undeniable. Its intensity has been known to turn a non-believer into a born again mystic. What holds such radiant power?

The moon.

There are 12 (sometimes 13) full moons in a year. Out of those 12, probably half are clearly visible. Six times in a year, if I am very lucky, I am washed in celestial energy.

​Now that we are all in a, make the best of a bad situation scenario, the moon has become my lifeline. This silver, shimmering orb shakes me from my dull, monotonous funk, replacing it with the wonder of being alive. It’s a slap across my face from Mother Nature saying, “Snap out of it”, said with a thick Brooklyn accent.

Under the super-charged glow of January’s Wolf moon, I entered an alternate dimension. It was a space where the mundane, analytical mind shuts off. Logic was momentarily suspended and replaced with sheer amazement.

​Finally, I awoke from my dreary slumber.

Live in color,

Abby

​― Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman 

Live in color,

​Abby

There was a brilliant TV commercial years ago. A camera zooms in on a single egg. A composed yet somber voice says, “This is your brain” The camera then pans to a hot skillet sitting on a lit stove. The egg is cracked on the rim of the pan, opened and dropped in. The egg sizzles, spits and spatters. The camera focuses on the fried, burnt remains of the egg. The voice returns, “This is your brain on drugs.”

​It was a quite affective visual.

How’s your brain doing these days? Sizzling?

As autumn takes hold here in Vermont, light and color fade. For a photographer that’s like saying goodbye to your best good-time buddies from summer.

This morning instead of being greeted by cool, wafting breezes and soft autumnal forest hues, I was met by ice — hard, brittle, unforgiving, linear, patterns.

​I was confronted by the brawny voice of nature. The natural world holds both male and female sides but, I respond to the smooth and silky, feminine voice. The gentle curvy lines, the soft contemplative tones, that speak to the right side of my brain. But this morning, a different landscape appeared before me.

I saw chaos and confusion. Where did my soft, quiet place go?

This is my brain on 2020.

Live in color,

​Abby

What is your job? I don’t mean what job pays your bills, what is your heart’s work? What were you sent here to contribute?

​Standing on a jagged rock, on the coast of Maine, with majestic sweeping views in front of me, my attention kept pulling me to a single leaf behind me. Ignoring that call, I continued to click away at the grand vistas. That constant summoning to a solitary, seemingly insignificant object in the woods continued throughout the day, along with my refusal to listen. 

Like a mother fed up with her child's barrage of “why” questions, while tugging at her pant leg, I finally gave in to the relentless calls and turned to the woods. A cast of characters called to me.

A lone leaf being gently held on a pine bough.

A delicate windswept feather, finding a space to breathe on a mammoth rock.

An immature fern sprout, late to the party, as autumn settles in.

And a still life composed by nature showing her harmony and jewel-like intricacies.

We all need space. Space to truly take in a moment, space to recognize an objects inherent delicacy and most importantly space for gratitude arise.

So... never under-estimate the power of an apparently inconsequential composition.

​Not to worry, I’m here to remind you.

Live in color,

​Abby

Am I really any more than the sum of my parts? 

This thought arose from a happy bunch of sunflowers perched on my kitchen windowsill. In full bloom the sunflower is a bold and bright flower, however for me, this golden blossom only begins to get interesting when the decay process starts. Each vibrant petal begins to mutate into an exquisite, character-rich, twisted and gnarled expression of transformation.

I carefully deconstructed my sunflower, revealing much more than its many parts. It unveiled many different layers of seeing. Where do I choose to put my attention? On the whole? Or on its unique parts? Today, I chose to put my attention on its parts.

The bigger challenge in life is to recognize and nurture the beautiful and imperfect parts of all living things, without ever losing sight of their glorious whole.

Live in color,

Abby

​He has been with me for 68 years. We both are a little tattered and worn, but still here. 

When I was a child, Rabbit was my most treasured possession. I dragged him everywhere, clenching firmly to his ear. I needed him, he made my little person’s perspective tolerable in a big person’s world. I awoke every day with him in my arms and would not close my eyes in the evening until he was nestled close to my chest. As I grew, inevitability, he fell out of favor. However, I never abandoned him. Through the years he always had a seat in my bedroom, my silent witness, where he was content to watch the ebbs and flows of my life.

There are things that we hold onto in our lives, seemingly trivial, like Rabbit. However, he is anything but trivial. Today he sits on my dresser, with fur that has been loved off, and an ear that has been stitched on, a constant reminder never to lose my childlike enthusiasm.

Today, for old time’s sake, Rabbit and I took a walk together in the meadow, grabbing his all too familiar ear. With crickets hopping across our path and dandelion buds caught between my toes, I noticed my sense of astonishment in nature has never diminished nor faltered from when I was a child. I still smile at a radiant sunset and am simply giddy over the morning dew lit up by the rising sun’s rays.

We all need reminders of what is important. Rabbit has taught me the value of a trusted friend, and the patience to stay with the ordinary long enough for it to reveal the extraordinary.

But Rabbit always knew that.

Live in color,

Abby 

That is what I heard rising from the trees on a brilliant summer morning, as a few women gathered on the campus of Southern Vermont Art Center. Tree yoga brought us together, a need to be centered and at peace was the intention.

I found a palpable shift of energy standing under the trees. I felt supported from both the ground beneath my feet and from the branches gracefully swaying above my head. I felt cradled and comforted as if in the arms of a wise woman.

Who knew these grand cedars could be such an invaluable source of aged wisdom? It is no wonder since this venerable species has been with us and revered since the beginning of time. Its wood was used to build sacred temples and burned in purification ceremonies. 

Resilience, support, strength and hope — that is what the cedar tree offers us.

A simple yoga class became anything but simple. Imbued with wisdom from ancient trees, pursuing an ancient discipline, as fingers were placed in ancient mudras...I surrendered.

Live in color,

Abby 

Intrigued? Tree yoga will be held at Southern Vermont Art Center in Manchester, Vermont every Saturday morning in July. https://www.svac.org/

I’m tired of waking up to a spectacular spring day crying.

I’m exhausted from all the noise. I’m so sad to see how all our lives have changed. I am distressed for my grandson and the world he is inheriting. 

I am heartbroken.

How do I hold on to my sanity? How do I nurture that small, quiet space I have to weather this storm?

On a recent visit to a friend’s house, who is an avid gardener and herbalist, I found the answer.

​Nature.

As I entered her back yard I saw an assemblage of potted plants in all shapes and sizes. Each with only one variety in its designated container, arranged in groups to highlight their inherent beauty.

I just sat and took the spectacle in. Moved by their grace, I reached for my camera and clicked away. There was a steady breeze wafting through the garden, so creating a tack sharp image was impossible. That never stopped me. I clicked away.

I found an exquisiteness in the blurred lines. Blocks of vibrant color came alive showing a different perspective and a moment of calm.

My hope is that the following images will allow you to also have a moment of calm. A moment for you to find your small, quiet, space to wipe your tears and see the good that surrounds us, even in difficult times.

Live in color,

Abby

Thank you Mary

Every good story has a cast of characters. It is the uniquely different personalities that weave a rich narrative.

Follow me into my garden, into a wild patch of herbs and weeds. This unattended plot is lush and humming with life. It is a place where field mint and chive live harmoniously with their roots deeply planted ensuring their perennial reappearance.

I was drawn to this patch of weeds at the break of dawn. I heard an undeniable call, summoning me. Getting up from my warm, comfy, bed I made my way outside and positioned myself next to the tangled plot. There I sat on the moist grass looking for nothing in particular and wanting nothing. I just observed. Slowly, I was delighted to be introduced to this botanic cast of characters.

It all started with the Gate-keeper, protecting the newly formed buds.

The harmonic resonance, swirling through the air was supplied by the choir.

Then my eye met the sage.

And what story would be complete without the temptress.

There are worlds within worlds and stories within stories all available to us if only we sit still.

Live in color,

Abby

Folklore tells us, in a time before man’s presence, there existed a species of little people. A jolly, reclusive race with an intimate relationship with nature. They were the keepers of the earth’s most guarded secrets. Welcome to the realm of Fairyland. 

Today, sprites are visible to the trained eye. They come in many guises, specifically designed for their unique habitat. They are most visible in the brilliant light of dawn, or the waning light of dusk. The arrival of solstices and equinoxes are their most celebrated time. ​

As the sun slipped behind a mountain ridge today, with only a handful of days away from the summer solstice, I was treated to an enchanting tree sprite display. I had the pleasure of watching them dance and sing in the receding light of this warm, spring day.

Sprites began to disappeared from human sight when civilization began to encroach upon their woods, however they return when we need to be reminded of our magical world.

I say to myself, “How can one not believe in their existence, as they frolic right before my eyes?” For now, I am content to watch them dance, with my body pressed in the wild, sweet meadow grass.

They have stayed hidden, cloaked in nature’s many disguises because of one special talent. They have the ability to shape-shift: one minute a tree sprite in complete jubilation, the next, a sprouting spring leaf.

Just another magical day in the company of sprites.

Live in color,

Abby

Coming together and falling apart is what nature does. So why would I expect anything different for myself? 

Nature consists of cycles. It relies on its rhythm for renewal. It’s not shocked when damage occurs, it just continues with its cycle. It doesn’t need reassurances that everything will be okay, it just accepts what is.

The lone journey of a dandelion is a complex one that illustrates this point. With a debut in early spring, its arrival is heralded by its brilliant golden color. Later in the season the yellow blossoms give way to white seeds ultimately meant to take flight. Then taking root, sprouting leaves, making flowers, making seeds, taking flight, taking root, sprouting leaves, making flowers, making seeds and taking flight…

Sometimes I have to fall apart to come together in a better way. Is this my time for renewal? I refuse to get sucked into the chaos. It’s time to loosen my grip on control and trust the cycles. It’s time to dwell in the soft places between quiet and madness.

Live in color,

Abby

This brilliant quote is by Pema Chodron, found in her survival guide titled, When Things Fall Apart.