It was a formidable journey.
Faint screeches rose as they became airborne.
This was the moment every leaf feared:
when their work was finished,
when the branch could hold them no longer,

they were cast into the unknown.
Brave little leaves.

I sat at the pond’s edge and watched
as they drifted downward, torn
from the only home they had ever known.
Some made the journey alone.
Others clung to each other in fear.
But as each touched the water’s surface,
where they expected a heavy, final splat,
there came instead a soft, resounding sigh--
Ahhhhhh--

as though release itself was the reward.

Live in color,
Abby

I often catch myself vacillating between the tangible world and a world of limitless imagination. One is concrete, full of tasks, routines, and responsibilities; the other is weightless, shaped entirely by possibility. As the years race by, I find myself drifting more often into that imagined world — not as an escape, but as a return to something essential. It’s quieter there, far more intriguing.
​
To see beyond what is to what could be is simply a matter of flexing my creativity — the way a painter looks at a blank canvas and doesn’t see emptiness, but potential. Not a void, but a whisper asking to become a field of color. I too, look at the ordinary and feel the tug of what might be — a flicker of a story at the edge of a pond, or a symphony found in the fog. In imagination, nothing is static. The mundane stretches, reshapes, blooms.

And perhaps that’s the gift — not to flee from reality, but to reframe it. To live with one foot in the known and one in the imagined is to walk a different kind of path, which I know a thing or two about: one where possibility doesn’t just reside on the edges, but colors everything I see. More and more, I find myself lingering longer on that path. Not because the real-world lacks wonder, but because wonder multiplies when I allow myself to dream. 

Live in Color,

​Abby

For close to 10 years, I have been walking to my pond most every morning, even if it means strapping on snowshoes to get there. I am amazed that each day brings a new perspective, each season holds a unique viewpoint. However, the in-between seasons are the most hypnotic.

April in Vermont is not quite winter and not quite spring. The surface of the pond fluctuates between stunning angular ice patterns and gentle ripples. Today, it was ice. I won't try to explain the formation and varying design of ice patterns, as that belongs to someone who is much smarter. I am merely the observer.

I have always considered Pond to be a mystical place. Wisdom can be found on its surface and in its depth. Today, I discovered a Torii gate, which confirmed my suspicions. In Japan, many of the shrines have a large structure, called a torii gate, at their entrance. They are also found in nature, at the base of a mountain or along the seashore. Stone or wood is typically used to construct them, and there are occasions when they are painted vermilion.

These structures, whatever the size, signify a gateway. They serve as a symbol to mark the transition from the everyday mundane world to the sacred.

​Today on the frozen surface, a reed that had been broken created a torii gate, a pathway to the divine.

During my trips to Pond, I never know what surprises await me, but I am certain that it will transport me to a magical world — an ethereal world.

Live in color,

Abby

Look very closely at the first image, locate the gate and pass through to the divine. 

On a balmy, brilliant morning, in the inner sanctum of His Holiness’s temple, there I sat on a low stone wall, covered with a celebratory crimson fabric, waiting for my first glimpse of the Dalai Lama.

​Wait! What? Is this the same person that spends her time in the company of nature in the wilds of Vermont? The same person that talks to the all the creatures that call Pond home? Yes, my life definitely has taken some surprisingly circuitous twists and turns.

I’m generally a very content person however, sometimes I become restless. I get a churning in my gut, a tell tale sign, it’s time for an adventure and I do mean adventure. An adventure that challenges me, that knocks me out of my comfy corner of the world opening my eyes to the intricate web we call life.

India has always captivated me, but also scared me. It is a country of extremes, offering enchanting beauty along with horrific squalor. Visitors may experience a sensory overload, hypnotized by the sights and sounds, almost impossible to comprehend. Fifteen years ago I gathered enough courage to visit India for the first time, from that point on, I was hooked.

After a five year break from travel, I was ready to revisit this intoxicating country.

​Never wanting to travel as a tourist, especially the dreaded, stereotypical American tourist, I needed to find a purpose for my travel. Photography was my calling card. On this trip to India I volunteered my services to The Pencil Tree organization, a small Not for Profit based out of Australia. Their mission, to help disadvantaged children in the Northern region of India, more specifically Dharamsalha, home to His Holiness the Dalai Lama. My assignment was to photograph the children and some of the 15 schools which Pencil Tree supports.

​There’s a tremendous amount of trust and faith that goes into the planning of a trip of this kind. My first conversations with the founder and director of The Pencil Tree, Stevie Bellamy was through a DM, direct message, on Instagram. There we introduced ourselves, set intentions and made plans. Months later, traveling nearly 7,000 miles, we met for the first time at the Kangra airport in Dharamshala, my first words to Stevie were, “Thank you for trusting me, for all you know I could be a mass murderer,” His response was, “What are the odds there would be two mass murderers in the same town?” From that moment I knew all would be well.

​​My days with Pencil Tree consisted of visits to remote elementary schools lying at the base of the lower Himalayan mountains. Some schools required a walk to get to, for the dirt roads ended before the small village. After a brief hike we were met by the spirited and enthusiastic smiles of children. Most, dressed impeccably in their government issued uniforms. The teachers, many women, dressed in vibrant Indian garb looking more like they about to attend a celebratory event, not begin an English lesson.

​The classrooms were well-organized, walls plastered with maps, alphabet charts, and cheerful animal murals that set a playful tone. On our visit, volunteers played various games with the children, from head, shoulders, knees and toes to creating a conga line. Sometimes dropping off all important school supplies, such as printers, books or pads for the students to sit on, away from the cold concrete floor. After a few hours of play we left the students exhilarated, volunteers exhausted.

​We entered the only concrete building, with a metal corrugated roof — the school. The classroom, if you call it that, had a dirt floor with naked pre-school children, running about. There I stood sobbing and shaking. Never in my life had I seen such poverty first hand. Never in my life had I been rattled to my core.

​I took a deep breath, told myself to get a grip and do your job! With tear soaked eyes I started to document the scene. With each click of the shutter, I thought of my beautiful, blessed grandchildren. How could there be such disparity in the world? How in this day and age could these conditions still exist. Oh, my blind innocence.

​One by one the children were ushered outside, naked and lined up for their morning bath. Each scrubbed, then dressed in tattered, oversized clothes. The commonality amongst the children, most had smiles. They thought they were rich, they had a warm bath, clothes to wear and a school to attend. Oh, the lessons we have to learn.

​Once again the volunteers played with the children and offered plates of cut fruit, while I stood there, with camera in hand, simply trembling. Some children had a disheartening gaze in their eyes, a gaze no child should have, while others, vibrant, curious pre-schoolers. After a short visit we gathered our things and said our good-byes.

​What do I do with such raw emotion? I’m sure in the coming weeks, I’ll find out.

​The next school made sense of it all. Tong-Len, a school established in 2004 founded and run by a Tibetan monk, supported by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Tong-Len opens its doors to kindergartners to 10th graders, offering a full-time education to children from the slums. One of the commendable aspects of Tong-Len was academics was not their sole curriculum, the integration of compassion and kindness was also emphasized. The personal development of the whole child was as important as English and the sciences.

​I was escorted by a charming young Indian girl, taking me by the hand saying, “Come mum, I’ll show you around.” She was in the 9th grade and proficient in English. She guided me from classroom to classroom, each with a special project about compassion, kindness or cultivating mindfulness. She was so proud of her school and completely understood she was one of the fortunate few for attending such a premier institution. I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, without hesitation, she said, “A scientist.”

​If a child shows potential at Tong-Len, they can be sponsored, allowing them to continue their education through college. Many students have achieved degrees in their desired field. These are the success stories straight out of the slums.

​To experience these two extremes in the same day, the slum and this remarkable school, gave me hope. Knowing those naked children in the pre-school could eventually be educated here, if serious about their studies and supported by their families. There is always hope.

​With a few days left in Dharamshala, on a whim, I decided to send in a request to the Dalai Lama’s office for a meeting with the Dalai Lama himself. What are the odds? Slim next to none, knowing His Holiness, who is approaching 90 and semi-retired. His audiences have been reduced dramatically. However, on one auspicious morning I received an email from his office, stating that I had been granted an audience.

​What do I do? What do I say? And being a good Long Island girl, what do I wear? I considered all the clever questions I could ask, but ultimately, I decided that I would do what I usually do, wing it. I did stop a few monks in town and asked what I should say or ask and more importantly what do I wear. Their answers were identical, clothing was not important, however it was imperative to wish his holiness a long life.

​Shaking from the entire meeting, I sat back down on a concrete wall to gather myself. I gazed up to the heavens and between the Himalayan pine branches I saw the waning moon still high in the morning sky.

​I marveled to think this was the same moon I watch rise and set over the ridge at my home in Vermont. I had the impression that Mother Moon was smiling down at me and had somehow masterminded this entire trip, culminating to this very moment.

​“My religion is kindness” His Holiness the Dalai Lama
​

No flowery adjectives are needed in the vastness of space.

The stark beauty and simplicity of subtle moments can be compelling.

The emptiness of a scene provides comfort, swaddling me in curious silence. 

What is present becomes almost insignificant, to the discovery of what is not.

With no place to go, 
nothing to do, 
I be.

Live in Color,

​Abby

In the constant daily hum of my day, sometimes life's fragile nature eludes me. When I do forget, life has a compelling way of reminding me.

Decades ago, when my mother died, feeling numb the day of her death, I was desperate to find solace. I grabbed my trusted companion at the time, my Newfoundland dog, Max, we went for a walk. 

Anyone that has experienced grief may know, it’s like no other emotion. It’s as if a foreign entity had entered my being, taking the form of a cloudy ball of sorrow traveling throughout my body, creating waves of emotion that erupt within. Each step forced my ball of sorrow to shoot from one point of my body to the next. I became a human pinball machine, prompting the lights and bells of grief to ring out.

With my Newf leading the way, we slowly walked down an oh, so familiar street. As a car passed by, my immediate thought was, “Why are they out? Don’t they know my mother just died?” I passed gardeners as they were cutting a neighbors lawn. I had to hold myself back from screaming “Stop! My mother just died.”

It was in that moment I was reminded, the power of the pause.

Moments of distress are part of life, however what I am seeing, especially since the advent of social media, I have forgotten how to take the occasional pause and sit with my distress. When an uncomfortable feeling arises, my knee jerk reaction is to run from the discomfort. It has become too easy to grab my phone, food or any other distraction to self-medicate. 

Zen masters have always understood the power of the pause, allowing time for the body to be still, to recalibrate. Pausing is essential when in dis-ease. This is not the time to think, to feel or talk. It’s time to just be, time to let the mud settle.

The memory of my mother’s passing came back because of Donald Trump’s assassination attempt. Minutes after the near tragic event, with smoke barely settled, the narrative began. Where was the pause?

The importance of the pause is to attempt to make sense of the senseless, to process the unthinkable, to allow time for our bodies own protection mechanisms to kick in. Most importantly, a pause is necessary to acknowledge the fragility of life, for without that, we miss the beauty — then are just sleepwalking.

Live in color,

Abby

P.S. The first draft of this post was written the day after the shooting. I finished this piece five days later because I needed to pause.

Days ago, while venturing into the woods on yet another grey and dreary day, I came upon this composition. Being mildly intrigued, click. 

Sitting in front of my computer, analyzing the image, my first response was, it’s not enough. I almost deleted it, but for some reason I didn’t. Every day since, I returned to the image attempting to figure out what it was trying to say, and still nothing. Three days later, the image was still calling me. I decided to do a little digging. Was there something about the date, the time that I was missing? Yep.

February 1st, the day it was made, is the halfway point between the winter solstice and spring equinox. It is the beginning of the reemergence of light.

As stated before, not all images are meant to be a WOW. Some are sneaky, quietly sending messages of hope and renewal in the mists of dark and gloomy days.

Live in color,

Abby

They planned their escape weeks ago.

Reed, the Twig twins and Pine Cone were fed up with the cold Vermont winters. They recalled the stories this past summer, from the chattering birds, of this land that is green and lush in January and February.

Dreaming no more of this heavenly place, it was time for their adventure.

Reed spoke up first and said, “I can be the boat to sail us away.”

The Twig twins said in unison, “Yes, yes, we can be the oars.”

And P. Cone in his commanding voice added, “I will be your captain.”

So, in the dark of night, soaring from the lift of a frosty squall, Reed, the Twig twins and P. Cone were on their way to a place wild, warm and unknown.

Live in color, 

Abby

P.S. Oh, the gifts Wind leaves me overnight. This composition was waiting just outside my front door this morning. Completely untouched, whispering this sweet tale of exploration, kinship and bravery.

Please accept this gift of silence for the New Year, for silence is at the core of all wisdom.

​This coming year will be one to battened down the hatches, tighten your seatbelt and simply hang on. Remember, in the cacophony of noise, silence is always available to you.
​

Happy New Year

​Abby

The glittering light on Pond got me up and out into last evenings spectacular full moon.

​There I stood at Pond’s edge watching this amazing light show. It seemed as if Pond and Moon were feverishly working in harmony. But why?

Curious, I asked Pond, “What’s going on?”

Pond replied, “Moon and I got a memo that there is a great need for more light in the world. Moon and I work in tandem along with Wind to accomplish just that.”

Pond concluded, “With the light of Moon, reflection of Pond and the lift of Wind, we send this light out into the world, may it serve to illuminate our hearts and paths.”


Live in color,

Abby

This series is personal.

​I have always had a camera in hand, but it wasn’t until Vermont Institute of Contemporary Arts closed, (the gallery I managed in VT) that I really took a deep dive into photography. Ten years of playing with the camera’s buttons and dials has led me to this moment.

Wild Abandonment is a series that not only speaks to me but is part of me. What you see is power and vulnerability. A curious pairing from a curious girl.

In this raw moment,
when there is nothing left to do,
when thinking is tabled,
when words are futile,
I find myself.

Live in color,

Abby

Comfort is a death sentence to discovery.

That memorable moment doesn’t come knocking on my door, walk over to the couch, where I am sprawled out and say, here ya go, here’s your special moment of the day.

I have to pick my sorry butt up and make my way out into the sometimes harsh world to discover that moment. It takes effort, anything worthwhile takes effort.

In our fast paced, fast food culture comfort seems to be what people strive for. The second an uncomfortable feeling arises, we medicate in some form or another and numb the annoying sensation dis-ease. Some have become so accustomed to live in this protective bubble, desensitized to possibilities, desensitized to life.

This was my “aha” moment the morning of my 71st birthday.

I got this crazy idea to be at a local lake for sunrise on that morning. The alarm went off at 5 am. I was so warm and comfy under the covers. It seemed to be complete madness to hoist myself up and out into cool, dark morning air, but I did.

​​Arriving at the lake, with only seconds to spare, I checked my magic hour app, 1 minutes and 37 seconds and counting to the golden hour.

I perched myself at the edge of the pond, there I met two dear friends. Solitude and Silence, gateways to the divine. I put down my camera to take this dynamic duo magic. My breath deepened and paused at the end of each exhale. Within each pause, I welcomed Presence.

​The mist, hovered over the pond preforming a slow and elegant dance, two steps forward, two steps back. Color began to wake. Then there was this lone loon. It’s haunting and solitary call sent chills up my spine. There was an underlining tone of melancholy in its impassioned wail. I wondered what it cried for? What do any of us cry for?

Several minutes passed, there my camera sat. I wasn’t quite ready to leave this divine moment.

​There I stood on my 71st birthday, far from alone. I was with Solitary, Silence, Presence and the loon. A perfect birthday party.

Alternatively, I could have just rolled over and gone back to sleep.


Live in color,

​Abby

With reverence I knelt, then laid my body down against the damp, moist earth.

They seemed shy, huddled against an ancient rock, sprouting from summer’s detritus. How shy could they possibly be being a shade of saffron orange? Even nature has its conundrums.

With a respectful nod, I asked the mushrooms if they would like a family portrait. With giddy excitement the matriarch said, “I’ve been waiting for you to ask, Yes please, we would love a portrait.” As she gathered her children at her feet, there she proudly stood, with her husband behind her, supporting her as he’s always done in the past. 

I looked up from my viewfinder and said to her, “What an elegant family you have.”

With that, they all turned a more radiant orange.

Ah, the blush of acknowledgment.

​Live in color,

Abby

Recently, I stepped away from not only social media, but also my camera. The camera decision was a hard one. I needed to take my own advice and find a quiet space to breathe.

Sounding like an old lady (hey, wait I am one), I no longer recognize the world I inhabit. A grew up in a world where values, ethics and morals were paramount. Today’s environment seems to be a free-for-all. 

I asked myself, as a photographer, how can I navigate these troubling times and remain sane. It seems now more than ever we all need a quiet, space to breathe. A place where there is no noise or narrative. A place where you may rest for a few minutes, soften and be grateful you are alive! 

Just remember, you have been created by the universe. Against all odds, random atoms, molecules and various elements, all converged to create you, a human being*.  An autonomous, mobile being that can see, hear, smell and communicate for a finite amount of time, then POOF —  you are gone. How extraordinary! 

How you choose to spend your limited time is entirely up to you, but I know how I will be spending my time. I will continue to walk in nature, cherish my family, value my close relationships, be respectful to all and hold my standards high. Most of all, knowing my place — a mere grain of sand on the expansive beach, we call life.

So, once again, you will find me in nature making images. Not trivial pretty images, but images of beauty, gratitude and reverence for life and the all important secret sauce, space. Oh, how déclassé, and uncontroversial you say, however, like it or not, the healing powers of nature is the medicine we all desperately need right now.

I will not be posting images with the same frequency as in the past. My new mantra: fervor over abundance.

To nature.

Live in color,

​Abby

*I apologize to the medical community for grossly over-simplifying our existence, but you get the point.

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.