​― 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.

Have you ever noticed the amount of time you spend waiting?

​We are all guilty. We wait for the perfect partner, the dream job, the next exotic vacation, dinner or even the mail.

Really? Is that how you want to spend your life?

This week, reading more and tuning into the morning and evening news programs with more frequency, I am reminded how many of us reside in life’s waiting room.

You have heard it before, within every tragedy lies important lessons to be learned. After being at home, on Long Island on 911, I learned lessons, lessons which I still carry with me today. Today, my hope is we walk away from this pandemic a little wiser. There is an abundance of lessons to be learned from this moment. I believe one of the most valuable is the renewed appreciation of time.

Many of us have separated ourselves from ourself. When a still moment arises we run to fill it with an activity. Pick your poison, you grab your phone, you turn on the tv, you open the refrigerator. Is the refrigerator really where your fulfillment lies? 

This pandemic offers the opportunity for a little self examination. 

Notice how much time you spend waiting. Now is the time to fill each moment with substance. Infuse those spaces with awareness and gratitude for what you have, not what you lost. 

In the coming weeks we will experience many moments needing to be filled, chose wisely. Don’t look to just fill a moment, look to enrich it.

Live in color,

Abby

The images that accompany this text are from last fall. On one of the first crisp mornings I found a iridescent olive green and gray warbler, lying lifeless on my deck.

For the next several hours I documented the beauty and intricacies of this fragile creature. I expanded her wings to reveal a perfect accordion fold of feathers. I was in awe of her gloriously vaned plumes, each having their own harmonious rhythm, as they slipped through my fingers.

That afternoon I took the time to take in the exquisite patterning of nature. To revel in the well-balanced, almost mathematical order of lines that made up her wingspan, but most of all to celebrate the grace with which she once filled the sky.

There is something you can do now to make yourself and the people around you feel better in these uncertain times.

Smile.

On my once a week outing, I learned a critical lesson. Driving down my mud soaked road I passed a gal walking her dog, our eyes met, and without thinking, smiled at each other. A momentary wave of calm washed over me. Arriving at the health food store a charming girl with a huge smile brought my pre-ordered box of groceries out to my car and I reciprocated with even a bigger smile. Again, a sensation of calm.

I always attributed my smile to my successful worldwide travel. I discovered when language or cultural differences get in the way, a smile can melt away barriers. Well, let’s melt away some of the current fear. Find a reason to smile. 

This simple human gesture can have a profound affect on others, including yourself, offering a connection and a sense of well-being. Smile at your partner, your child, and if you are alone, smile at yourself in the mirror. It’s contagious, the good kind.

Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through for you

Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear may be ever so near

That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile

Music and lyrics by
Charles Chaplin, John Turner and Geoffrey Parsons

​Live in color,

Abby

What do you lust for?

Now that I am comfortably settled in my latter years, I find I require less stuff to make me happy. The days of searching for the next great thing to amuse, stimulate or entertain me are pretty much over.

It has taken me 68 years to figure out I am the only one that is responsible for my own happiness. Looking outside myself for some type of gratification is fruitless. The nurturing of my own inner contentment and peace is my only salvation.

I am fortunate to find great joy in a sunset, an ice pattern found on my driveway or a shadow casting a long, late day impression on a glistening snowscape. These are all gifts I recognize, and I am thankful I have the ability to see them.

Today, I lust for engagement with the world around me. I lust for the discovery of both the hidden and apparent natural beauty within eyeshot. I lust for the unexpected awe found in the ripples of a stream. I lust for an appreciation and gratitude for this “one wild and precious life”.

What do you lust for?

Live in color,

Abby

It’s spectacular, isn’t it. I’m talking about the world in which we live.

Every day the moon rises and sets, and tides flow in and out effortlessly with an unflappable rhythm. The natural world knows its place. There’s no moaning or complaining, just an understanding of a job that needs to be done.

Humans muck things up.

We have become the bully in nature’s playground, taunting, challenging and ultimately dominating. Can’t we all just play nice?

It’s time to reacquaint ourselves with the crispness of the morning air, the sparkle of freshly fallen snow and the resilience of a swift stream. It’s time to renew our reverence, respect, and humility for the world in which we live. It’s time to reconnect.

Just for a second, abandon your egocentric view and imagine being part of something grander. Envision being an integral part of our planets very survival — for you are.

Now take a moment and get your head out of your devices, and at the minimum, look out the window, or better yet, go for a walk in the woods. Be prepared to be astonished.

Now is the time.

Live in color,

Abby

​The recognition in his eyes had all but disappeared for his wife of sixty-two years however, her devotion towards him created a new portal of connection.

This is a love story that was a lifetime in the making. Their six decade marriage had taken them through the good times with ease and joy, and the difficult times with patience and resilience. They survived the challenges of a long relationship, showing us what a successful marriage can look like.

Now in the winter of their years, they continue to lean on each other for the essential human connection we all hunger for. The evidence of passing time is apparent for them both, him more so than her. With a diagnosis of multiple degenerative diseases affecting his brain, he now resides in a sporadic state of confusion. He has all but lost his ability to recognize the once familiar, experiencing only moments of clarity.

They both struggle with their current situation, but cope as best they can. He spends his days adrift in his fog and she, at times, is devastated and adrift without him. 

If you have ever experienced anyone with a cognitive dysfunction, the moments, however brief, of recognition are truly gifts.

Most days, his eyes fall blank, void of any memory. Until, she does one thing. 

​She sits next to him, moves in close, lovingly puts her arm around his back, pulling him in even closer, then gently presses her lips to his. In a flash his haze dissipates and his mental clarity returns as their lips touch. He sees his wife once again and has enough time to say, Inesinha, his endearing pet name for her. Moments later his mental fog rolls back in clouding, then suffocating his recall.

This elegant couple is Ines and Waldyr Bastos. They are my daughter-in-laws grandparents, presently residing in an assisted-living facility in São Paulo, Brazil.

​Hold dear to your own moments, for they are fleeting. Days pass, but moments are forever.

Happy Valentines Day.

Live in color,

Abby

Somewhere between,
Land and sea,
Light and dark,
And peace and chaos,
Lies a world we think we know, or do we really?

We quickly label everything and rarely stray from its given designation. Until we look, really look at something does it unveil its complexity and seamless transmutation into something other.​

It is that other I am drawn to. 

Discovering the other is better than walking down the stairs Christmas morning to a roomful of glittering gifts. The other is the ultimate gift, the reward for having persistence to see. 

On a recent visit to Provincetown I found more than sand and sea. I found the warp and weft of light and texture. It was difficult to see sand for sand, or water for water, for the interplay of the two created the other. 

Life is in constant flux. It is in that flux that labels disappear, and new identities emerge. 

Welcome the flux. 

Live in color,
Abby

​Some mornings are noteworthy. January 1st, 2020 was one of those unforgettable mornings.

With the sun still below the horizon, indirect light slowly illuminates the nearby mountain ridge. This morning’s light comes with a tall order. It needs to herald in not only a new day, a new year, and a new decade, but also a new vision. 

Could the painterly strokes that dress the morning air be a sign of good things yet to come? 

​This is the year of 20/20 vision. A clarity of sight and expression is needed now more than ever. Just seeing is no longer enough, seeing deeply is required. With decades passing me by as quickly as years, I feel an urgency to pay attention.

This morning I did just that. I took a front row seat to the morning’s spectacle, acknowledged the day was a gift, and mumbled to myself, “now don’t blow it.”

Happy New Year

Live in color,

Abby 

One thousand and five hundred days and 60 posts later, I have a new look.

After four years, Perspectives is now retired and a new website with more of a focus on my photography, is now up and running. Welcome to Abby Raeder Contemplative Photographer.

Any serious sojourn into photography, I believe, has less to do with the technical aspect of the camera and more to do with what is rattling around in the head of the photographer. So many questions arise in finding your photographic voice. Why am I making images? What is it that I need to say? Does anyone care?

Reflecting on those exact questions is how I have spent most of the last four years  My pursuit has been about creating more meaningful images as opposed to more pretty pictures. I have had countless reviews, attempting to guide me through this developmental stage, with little constructive advise other than, find your audience. That’s kind of like the old Steve Martin routine. Martin goes on to explain how you can get away with not paying any income taxes. His advise 1. Make a million dollars. 2. Tell the IRS, I forgot.

Life is never that simple, and neither is photography.

What I have uncovered in my process is my apparent connection to nature. I have learned there are innumerable life lessons that are available to one who carefully listens during a walk in the woods or along a windswept seashore. Nature holds more wisdom than a bevy of monks perched atop a Himalayan peak.

In the coming months I hope you will enjoy my new look and continue to read my occasional posts, under the tab Musings. I will be out and about making connections and images which I look forward to sharing with you. In the meantime, I encourage you to take a walk under your own leafy canopy to listen and learn.

Live in color,
Abby

This making art stuff isn’t easy. 

Once you have mastered your tools, all that’s left to focus on is you, the artist. That’s the space that is lonely and filled with doubt.

Making art is like being in therapy three times a week, with your therapist on speed dial. The process is filled with self-examination. Questions arise. What is it I really have to say? Does anyone care? Do I matter?

Anyone making art contributes their own flavor to a creative stew. Some add the spice, some add the stock that holds everything together and some add the garnish. All are essential to a rich and satisfying meal.

Pretty art may be considered the garnish, trite and superficial. But is it? During a 5-star dining experience, the visual is just as important as the taste. Pretty becomes the lure for you to pick up your fork and taste, to dive deeper into the complexity of the dish.

I may be putting my head on the chopping block, but I make pretty art. Not superficial or trite art, but art that uses pretty to draw you in. Ultimately, I want you to be seduced by my images, then astonished by nature’s magical and transformative beauty.

​The challenging part of navigating my artistic journey is to stay true to who I am as an artist and not be swayed by the flavor of the moment. Provocative, edgy art seems to be the current flavor. I’ve seen enough disturbing art that my antacids are always within reach.

Let’s not let pretty get a bad rap. Where would we be without pretty? I don’t want to be in a world that considers a sunset trite, or a rainbow hokey, or the morning light on the ebbing tide, banal.

Self-analysis is crucial in the art making process, but giving yourself permission to be authentically you, is paramount.

Gotta run, there’s a rainbow hovering over my meadow.

Live in color, 
Abby

Who among us will pick up and carry forward the baton Mary Oliver passes to us?

Who will prompt us to stop and take notice of our “one wild and precious life?” Who will remind us to listen to our breath, to pay attention, to be astonished?

I’m not a poetry girl. I have trouble digesting metaphor rich poems that speak of one thing, yet mean another. My brain just doesn’t go there. But then... along comes Mary.

​Mary Oliver’s poetry is accessible. She asks the tough questions in a straightforward and honest manner. She understands the importance of nature and solitude. We speak the same language.

As I sit alone on a beach, on a raw May morning in Provincetown, my mind can’t help but think of Mary. Her presence here is palpable. How can I walk across the dunes she loved so dearly and not think of her? This was her fertile ground. The ground in which some of her most recited poems came to life.

Mary awakens me to the magnificence of life by simply noticing. She teaches me that the act of observation quiets the infernal hum and refocuses my attention to the ever-present beauty that surrounds me. 

She was an advocate of cultivating one’s observation skills to see at a deeper level. She wanted her readers to look beyond the “ho hum” ultimately to discover the “holy cow!”

I may not be as eloquent, or as wise, as Mary but because of her I will continue to notice, photograph and praise the beauty I find. Hail Mary!

​Live in color,
Abby

Lunch break. While wandering through the Old Delhi market, our eyes met, and for a brief moment we had a connection.

When traveling, what do you focus your photographic attention on? Is it the natural beauty of a sweeping landscape or local monuments or other well-visited attractions? For me, it’s all about the people I encounter.

Beauty is not my focus, but more what resides behind the eyes, the soul.
​
Each of the following images has a story, a brief encounter and connection. 

The Sikh gentleman manning one of the information booths at a Hindu temple in Delhi, a sage if ever I saw one.

The boy who begged to have his photo taken in the hectic market of Old Delhi.

The old man who waved to me and graciously posed in Dharamshala.

The young lovers. I was approached by this pretty girl at a Sikh temple. Without saying one word she made it perfectly clear she wanted a photo taken of her and her boyfriend. She gave me her email. I sent her the photo.

The woman at the same Sikh temple who gently touched my arm and stood in front of me and posed. After I took the photo I turned the camera around to show her and she waved, no. She wasn’t interested in seeing the image, only wished to be seen.

I smiled at this gal, she smiled back. I told her she was very pretty, she glowed and posed as her husband looked on, somewhat disapprovingly.

The woman in red, I had to stop when I saw this beauty lit by a shaft of light. I raised my camera and gave the thumbs up sign, she timidly nodded.

The future of Buddhism, but still babies, in a remote monastery in northern India.

The Hindu Sadhu, that has chosen a life of abstinence, leaving behind all material, family, social, and sensual attachments, often for the purpose of pursuing spiritual goals.

A rich tapestry is woven by the many faces of India. Not all are pretty, but all are authentic and not shy of being seen for who they really are.

Is there a lesson here for us?

​Live in color.
Abby

​Sit back while I tell you the story of Devanajari (Deva), a street kid of Delhi.
Nepal, the home of soaring mountains, mystics and wandering yogis is where this saga begins.

Deva was one of three children living with his parents in their traditional Nepalese home, nestled in the rural lowlands. The backdrop to his mud brick dwelling was the soaring Himalayas. 

​The Himalayas make up 80% of the land mass of the country. Mt. Everest, the tallest mountain in the world, is their crown jewel. Deva’s home was situated in the fertile valley, at the base of the southern Himalayas.

As with all typical Nepali households, everyone worked. Deva and his younger brother tended to their two goats and a handful of chickens, while his older sister helped with the cooking and cleaning. None of the siblings attended school. His father cultivated a small farm, while his mother worked in a rice paddy.

One typical morning, Deva and his brother were tending to the animals and his sister was preparing a meal in their makeshift kitchen. His father was already out in the fields, while Deva’s mother was outside collecting firewood. Unbeknownst to Deva, his life was about to be shattered by a blood curdling scream. 

As his mother was gathering wood she was bitten by a venomous snake. The children ran to her side, helped her back to the house where they tried to make her comfortable as best they could. Not all snake bites, even from a venomous snake, are lethal, however this was not the case for Deva’s mother.

By nightfall she was dead.

​The family was devastated by their loss, especially Deva’s father. He had no idea how to raise three children on his own. Upon hearing of his loss, Deva’s aunt sent a letter to her brother instructing him to move to Mumbai. She had moved to Mumbai three years earlier. She was willing to share her humble home and help raise the children, while he found work and a home of his own. Feeling he had no option, he uprooted his family from their Nepalese village, the only home they had ever known.

Mumbai was a stark contrast to the lush green valleys of Nepal. Deva’s first encounter with the big city was scary, yet somehow exhilarating. The now family of four, settled into the cramped quarters of his aunt’s home. 

Deva’s father never recovered from the loss of his wife. Overwhelmed by city life and the struggle to find work, he began to drink. 

Deva, now 9, was seduced by city life. While adjusting to his new life in Mumbai, he heard fantastic stories of the gleaming capital of India, Delhi. The tales of Delhi were wildly exaggerated, filled with adventure and endless opportunity. 

Deva was headstrong and overly confident, a recipe for disaster for a 9 year old boy. He became frustrated with his father and their cramped living conditions. Growing restless with his situation, he became convinced he could do better on his own. Without any word to his family, he hopped a train illegally, to what he thought would be a promising new life in his nation’s capital.

With images of great riches dancing in his head, he arrived at the dank train station in Delhi. His plan? What plan?

​There he sat alone and scared in a foul corner of the station. He watched throngs of people pass by, some with destinations, others, like him, aimless. He noticed bands of children, like ants, scurrying from one point to another. They seemed to have an objective. He was determined to find out what that was. 

The children, he carefully studied, were a handful of the lost children of Delhi. On average, there are between 70 - 80 children that arrive daily in India’s capital. These children are runaways, all escaping difficult and dangerous situations, all in search of a better life. This band of lost children Deva watched were about to become his new family.

These runaways taught Deva how to survive on the street. He was first shown where to safely sleep. At night the children would huddle together on scraps of cardboard, in a quiet nook of the station. The next lesson he learned was plastic equaled money. 1 kilo of plastic = 22 rupees. This translates to approximately 2 pounds of plastic = 30 cents. He quickly mastered the art of plastic picking.

That money was usually spent on food, however not always. In place of food, at times money was spent on a movie ticket. In the dark recesses of a theater the children would sit quietly, undisturbed and sniff glue or white-out, to momentarily numb the pain of their ill-fated lives. Deva spiraled down that same hopeless path.

This was his life for almost two years. 

Just as his life’s circumstance was quickly shattered the day his mother died, his current way of life was about to take another dramatic turn.
One day, during his normal scavenger routine, a man approached him. Deva was filthy and scrawny. The man asked where Deva’s family was. Deva starred blankly into his eyes.

The man then said, “Come with me.” 

Frightened, yet hungry, Deva followed with great hesitation. He was brought to an office not far from the train terminal. It was located on the third floor, next to the police station. Upon his arrival, he was fed. Still distrustful, he was ready to bolt the moment he felt threatened.

His young body was fatigued and worn from living on the streets. Being fed and cared for felt luxurious, something he could get used to. He learned the man that picked him up at the station worked for an organization called Salaam Baalak Trust (SBT) Salaam Baalak provides a safe environment for the children rescued from the streets. Since 1988 they offer quality education, nutrition and healthcare for the lost children of Delhi.

​Deva needed time to develop trust for his rescuer and SBT, and eventually, that trust built. He began classes in the third floor walk up at SBT. Along with his daily studies he also learned about sanitation and nutrition. As time passed, he grew stronger, healthier and more interested in his studies. He slowly worked his way through SBT education program. He flourished while there, a striking difference from the disheveled eleven year old boy that was picked up at the rail station years earlier.

Today, as part of Salaam Baalak outreach program, guided city walks are provided. For a mere $5, a former street kid will escort anyone interested through the dingy back alleys of Delhi. The same streets that Deva once called home. The guide explains life on the streets for a child and the assistance Salaam Baalak provides.

I took one of SBT‘s city walks and Deva was my guide.

​I am not telling you this story for you to support Salaam Baalak https://www.salaambaalaktrust.com/who-we-are.php. That’s up to you. However, I am telling you this story because life isn’t always what it may appear to be. Circumstances sometimes happen beyond anyone’s control, where you are delivered to a situation beyond comprehension.

There are many compelling stories of life on the street. All I ask of you is to hold a compassionate ear and an open heart to each and every one of those stories. Listen without judgement.

Salaam Baalak Trust rose out of the 1988 Indian movie, Salaam Bombay, chronicling the day to day life of children living in the slums of Bombay. The writer and director, Mira Nair, deeply moved by the lost children’s horrific story, started the organization. The movie Salaam Bombay was the precursor to the Academy Award winning film Slumdog Millionaire.

​Because of Mira Nair’s connection to the movie industry, a street-based Theatre Action Group was formed teaching the street children all aspects of the arts. Scholarships are awarded to a few graduates each year that have successfully completed the program. The success stories of these children are numerous. The professions of some graduates are impressive, ranging from photographers to engineers. Since 1988, SBT has cared for and protected more than 80,000 children. These children are lost no more.

Deva is now 19 years old. He sent for his brother in Mumbai, who now lives with him in Delhi. His sister is married and living in Mumbai. His father still struggles. Today, Deva escorts visitors on daily SBT city walks. He teaches his brother about life and is focused on getting a scholarship. Deva aspires to become an actor.

As in all good Bollywood movies, this is Deva’s happy ending...or is it just the beginning?

​Live in color,
Abby

​Please allow me a few moments to share a story and to explain this photo.

I was living in New York when 911 occurred. Anyone who lived there at that time will remember the shock and numbness that descended on its residents. For months afterwards life in the city and surrounding counties was surreal. There was a choking heaviness, a mixture of fear and uncertainty.

As time passed, the holidays grew closer. I wondered how could I celebrate Christmas that year? Buying frivolous gifts seemed disrespectful and planning a sumptuous meal felt too extravagant. Even when it came down to a Christmas card I was stumped. 

Through the years my go to Christmas card was a photo of my son and two Newfoundlands, however, this Christmas I thought the card needed to say something more. After much deliberation, I decided to make a macro image of my Newfie’s nose. Yes, just his nose. In all its glistening, wet glory, an image of a jet-black Newfoundland snout was my Christmas card. The message inside read: Enjoy the small things in life.

It didn’t take long for people to respond. The majority were, “Well, she’s finally lost it.”

In retrospect, it was in that moment that I finally found it.

The horror of 911 quickly put life into perspective. I realized in a flash what was important and what wasn’t. Suddenly my comfortable, suburban lifestyle felt unsettled. All the trappings of my provincial way of being left me hollow and unfulfilled. 

Everyone experienced 911 in their own way. I experienced a shift. It was a shift inwards. My relentless outward search for happiness relaxed into an appreciation for what is right in front of me.

​Now to the photo attached.

This morning I woke and followed my normal routine beginning by making coffee. Grind, measure, fill and flip on.

After breakfast, I cleaned up. I dumped the remainder of the coffee, opened the lid of the coffee maker to empty the grinds and there they were — a nest of coffee beans. Now I’m sure there is someone out there saying, “Big whoop”. But to me, it was a big whoop. How these four beans made it through the grinding process and how they settled, huddled together, in a seemingly safe and secure nest, put a huge smile on my face.

Each day unexpected visual gifts present themselves. These presents are everywhere, but only apparent to the perceptive observer. These visual surprises are life’s momentary expressions of its playful beauty and certain unpredictability.

​Please allow this pithy post be a reminder that it is the little things that ensure a well-balanced, fragant and robust experience.

​Live in color,
Abby

It happens every year about this time. March rolls in and I become constipated — creatively that is.

Living deep in the woods of Vermont, the solitude and beauty I find in the winter months is breathtaking. The fire and vitality of summer are silenced by a layer of fluffy frosting, revealing only stark contrasts. The March landscape in Vermont is brilliantly minimal.

​That’s the good news. The bad news is, I’m a color gal. Just about this time every year my heart and creative pulse yearns for color.

I have enjoyed winter's living grayscale laying outside my window, exposing the whitest whites to the blackest blacks, however, I now pine for color. My monastic, midwinter, white-bread diet is yearning for a little spice. Color is that spice, the remedy I desperately need to stir my creative flow once again.

So until the first signs of spring appear, my eye wildly searches for color. Today’s color was found is a bouquet of orange roses on my kitchen counter.

​I pulled one stem from the arrangement, brought it to my windowsill, gently placing it on its side, while admiring its beauty. I said to the rose, “Talk to me”.

Oh, what a conversation we had!

​I inadvertently opened a flood gate of emotions for this single rose. Rose told me how misunderstood she was. She resented how she was looked upon as just a pretty little thing. Most never took the time to truly recognize her depth and sensitivity. She went on to explain she was so much more than a cluster of petals. She was life itself.

Rose then felt comfortable enough with me to expose her various sides. In an instant she became my model and muse, perched in front of me, the artist. Slowly she stripped away her layers, exposing her mystery, sensuality and her grandeur.

Just as an artist's brush attempts to capture the grace and emotion of that which lies before him, I tried to document the complexity of this rare beauty.

Who knew?

What would happen if you spent quality time, like this, with everything that crossed your path? How could you not feel the flush of awe and reverence for life itself.

​Live in color,
Abby

​The living room was saturated with the aroma of perfume and smoke, typical for a 1950’s Long Island cocktail party. I scanned the room of usual suspects, elegant women in their brocaded dresses, dapper men in business regalia. However, my attention was drawn to one person in the crowd, Father Kerwin, a Roman Catholic priest. Father Kerwin was a friend and confidant of my parents. He was a fixture at their parties.
​
Why should a 5-year old little girl be interested in a man of the cloth? I should have been captivated by the glamorous women dripping in shiny bits, precariously balanced on their stiletto heeled opera pumps, but no, it was a priest I found intriguing. A gentle man with a warm smile and an unwavering collected composure.

As a child, I hated church. I never felt the solace that so many experience, I only felt agita. I loathed Sunday services, the choking incense, the half-naked man hanging from a cross, the chanting in Latin and the choreographed movement sent me into a state of nausea, literally. Most Sundays my father had to escort me, mid-service, to the vestibule where he cracked the massive bronze doors open so I could get a breath of fresh air to keep me from fainting.

Needless to say, I was anything but religious. However, during that cocktail party I saw something in Father Kerwin that I never saw before. He stood in a crowd of people, yet somehow stood apart. He radiated an intoxicating aura, something I didn’t see in anyone else. He personified grace and ease. I remember looking at him through the legs of the guests at the gathering, saying to myself, “I want some of that.”

​60+ years later, I’m still looking for some of that.

In 2016 my husband and I traveled to Dharamsala, India in search of an exotic adventure. Dharamsala  has been the home of the Dali Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile since 1952. This hillside city, on the edge of the Himalayas, has become home to thousands of Tibetan refugees and the spiritual center of Tibetan Buddhism.  

​Our hotel was a stone’s throw away from the Dali Lama’s temple. Every day we would wander into the temple to listen to the monks’ chant, watch prostrations being preformed, candle lighting, horn blowing and the feeding of the hungry. The temple was welcoming, even for a tourist that had no idea what the heck was going on. I was met with warm smiles, approving nods and even an invitation to sit and join the chanting.

On the final day of our trip, we climbed the stairs to the temple, one last time, to bid our fond farewells. I stood in the back corner of the main hall, wedged between a room of flickering candles and an area filled with old Tibetan women clutching their prayer beads, rocking in unison on their woven floor mats. Within the confines of the temple there was no evidence of the frenetic pace that lay just outside the temple walls. Inside it felt safe, as if cloaked in a cape of serenity. I wanted to bottle what I felt and stuff it in my carry-on. After a short while my husband turned to me and said, “We have to go.” I responded, “I don’t want to.”

In a flash I was that 5-year old little girl who saw something special at my parents’ party. Again, I knew I was witnessing something significant, but didn’t know what it was. 

​These are just two examples, out of  many, of how I have been drawn to a scene. The more important question is, why? 

So what does a girl do when she’s looking for answers? Well, she could head to her local bookstore and find a book on New Age psychology, meet friends over cocktails and share her thoughts, or find a meditation cushion and just sit. Knowing I do nothing in a small way, I have chosen to go on a explorative journey, a mini pilgrimage of sorts.

Why a pilgrimage? There are many reasons one would set off on such a journey. Usually, someone is looking for an answer to a deeply personal question. For me, it’s about self-discovery, fueled by curiosity. Let me make it clear, I am not looking for religion, or some God or deity, nor am I looking for absolution for some indiscretion.

I am looking to better understand my role in the world I inhabit. Father Kerwin was such a random siting however, it must have held some significance if it has stayed with me all these years. Simply, and this is no simple order, I am looking for some rhyme or reason to why I see the things that I do. Why am I drawn to one subject over another? At times I feel I am being lured into a conversation with my subject, but to say what?

​A pilgrimage is a solo journey. Personal time and space are needed to do the heavy lifting. So I am returning to Dharamsala on my own this April, in search of, I’m not sure what, but open to everything. The old adage still holds true: Sometimes you just need to get lost in order to find yourself.

In the past few years, I have learned to express myself through photography and writing, I have tried to highlight moments that catch my attention, moments of splendor that many may over-look. My journey is a deep dive into those attention-grabbing moments that I frame, illuminating them even further. Ah, maybe that’s it: I’m looking for illumination!

So, I head off to India with curiosity and a couple of power bars. Truly, what else does a girl need?

​Namaste.
Abby