Is a lifetime of asking questions a waste of time?

There is a good chance a toddler's first foray into verbal communication just might come in the form of questions. These questions keep coming and coming and coming, becoming more complex and enigmatic as we mature. Now don't get me wrong, questions are great. Questions are a sign of curiosity and intellect. However, at some point as we mellow, I ask the game changing question, "Do we really need to know all the answers?"

Asking questions with no solid answers is frustrating. Just ask a person of science. A scientist will give you a hypothesis, or theory where answers are unknown, which for me, leads straight to a headache and two Advil. There is something to be said for being okay in the not knowing.

So now in my sixth decade, I'm taking a new approach; I am embracing ambiguity. I don't believe it is giving up a good fight, but more opening myself up to creative thinking. Ambiguity creates a space where ingenious options reside.

How about using that newfound space as our personal sandbox to muck around in? What if we throw out the need to know, and experience the freedom of digging deep into our limitless imagination and see what we can unearth.

Shovels not included.

​Live in color,
Abby

In the bleak days of the winter of 1980, scared and totally unprepared, I awaited the arrival of my first and only child. I never planned on being a mother. That was for other women, certainly not me. I had chosen a life of travel and adventure, and frowned upon the parochial life of a suburban mom.
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I went kicking and screaming into motherhood, but in time joyfully accepted my job as nurturer, teacher and role model to a little boy who stole my heart.

In the days leading up to my son's birth I agonized over what type of mother I wanted to be. I didn't want to make the same mis-steps my parents made with me. I vowed I would tell my child, he was loved every day, and I would encourage him to dream big. I was raised with limitations all around me, closing off a world of dreams. I taught my son he could be whatever he wanted to be, while remaining kind, considerate and compassionate.
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Wanting to reinforce these intentions for my unborn child, I started a needlepoint with a theme I loved - animals. The subject etched into the needlepoint's canvas was Noah's Ark, a story of unwavering faith and gratitude. My idea was to stitch a canvas of hopes and dreams. Each animal, held a key value that I wanted to impart to my child: the lion represented courage, the elephant, wisdom and strength, and giraffe taught resourcefulness and intuition. Stitch by stitch my intentions were sewn firmly put in place. In the final days of my pregnancy, I hung the canvas of intentions on his nursery wall.

Now 36 years later, I have dug out that same needlepoint from my box of memorabilia, cleaned it off, and will present it to my son, and his beautiful pregnant wife, due this September.
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The energy of intentions that have been stitched into this needlepoint are still palpable. As I pass this embroidery on to my first grandchild, may he be guided by Noah's determination and the wisdom of these powerful totem animals. May he be strong, patient, resilient, creative and filled with passion.

May this piece also remind my son that all our lives are interwoven, it is that connectedness that is the fiber of our very existence.
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Live in color,
Abby

Have you ever wondered what a photographer is trying to say with her photographs?

Just as a writer needs to develop an idea before she sits down to her computer to write the next great American novel; a photographer also needs to be clear about the message she is trying to convey though her image.

This week I am wrapping up a 12 week on-line visual journaling workshop guided by Kim Manley Ort and Sally Drew. The goal of the workshop was to develop the skills needed to become more self-aware of my thoughts, emotions and photographic voice, and learn how it affects the images I make.

This workshop took me beyond the technical into 12 weeks of introspection. I examined the metaphors and symbols found in my images and uncovered themes, patterns and the universal messages hidden within the pixels. It seemed simple enough until the question was asked, "Why do I take photographs?" This seems like a easy question, but not so fast.

What I discovered is that I had no idea what I was trying to say with my photographs. Was I just clicking away willy-nilly, or was there a clear intent or vision to my images? It took weeks for me  to wade through my images and the thoughts that lay behind them, but finally a golden thread appeared.

​One of my final assignments was to write an "Artist Statement". OY! This was no small task.  To make it even more difficult, I needed to whittle it down to just a few sentences. After several false starts, I began to weave that golden thread into the very fabric of my being.

To understand the method of my madness, I offer you my Artist Statement:

The wonder of it all is what astounds me, perhaps you feel the same. As illustrated by these simple pussy willows, moistened by the morning dew; enchantment takes hold.

We all have our creative pursuits, whether it's photography, writing, painting, cooking, gardening, or whatever. Next time you have that creative urge, ask yourself, "Why am I doing this? What do I want it to say about me?"

If you are up for the challenge,  begin by being intentional, starting with your voice.

Live in color,
Abby

Thank you, Kim and Sally, for gently guiding me to the self-reflection required to become more creative. To find out more about this workshop and others click onto www.kimmanleyort.com/blog/.

She probably has walked these weathered, cobblestone streets all her life, and today was no exception. I was drawn to her floral smock, layered with a crisp gingham apron. Pride in her appearance was apparent. Her wooden cane added just enough support to her bowed legs, and balance to her weary feet, as she made her way to the morning market.

I can only imagine the savory ingredients, on her shopping list for this evenings family dinner; pungent herbs, farm ripe vegetables, and perhaps a fresh hen to round out the meal.

There was a contentment and ease about her. Her strong, dignified presence and gentle demeanor convinced me she was content with her place in life. She was satisfied strolling the familiar streets, while running her mundane daily chores. Providing her family a nurturing and delectable meal, with the freshest ingredients gave her purpose, and that was enough.

The streets are filled with many wise ones, sages, that silently walk among us, showing us a calm acceptance to life.

How accepting are you of your life?

​Live in color,
Abby

One never knows when an amazing gift will come your way.

A dozen roses showed up on my doorstep this week. These weren't your garden variety roses, but deep persimmon roses. They were beautiful and they knew it. Not only were these roses dazzling, they screamed Spring, calling me into action.

​With the morning sunlight casting a radiant glow on these perfect posies, I reached for my camera, and clicked and clicked away.

I immediately went into the Georgia O'Keeffe mode, seeing the sensual abstractions that revealed themselves, tucked deep within their layered folds, as water droplets clung to their fleshy surface.

This is why I love photography, discovering the hidden form and beauty in the everyday. The scent and sensuality of flowers is nothing to sneeze at.

Live in color,
Abby

Every culture since the beginning of time has done it. The Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Celts, all the way back to the Babylonians have done it. It was time I gave it a try.
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Scrying is the practice of looking into a reflective surface, examining the non-physical shapes and images that reveal themselves to you. Scrying creates a meditative state in which you only focus on the patterns and lines before you. Different items may be used as a focus tool, water is the most common, however, mirrors, crystals, smoke, flames and even clouds has been used throughout time. In my case I chose ice, for which there is an abundance in Vermont, as the ground wakes from its winter slumber.

With spring approaching, the rivers and streams of the Green Mountains are choked with massive, thick slabs of ice moving downstream. Like giant building blocks, strewn along the riverbanks, they called me in for a closer examination. The slabs average 6 inches deep, with some pieces spanning several feet wide. On this day the surface of these hulking blocks of ice turn into reflective pools of light from the warm March afternoon sun, a perfect opportunity for Scrying.

Looking closely into these glistening glacial blocks reveals the cracks, scars and frozen bubbles from a winter with too many thaws and freezes. An icy cross-section can hold intriguing shapes and figures for the viewer. The mind struggles to find meaning in the abstract, but eventually it quietly settles into the hum of an internal wisdom, unmasking only what needs to be seen.

Whether we choose to scry or to simply commit to seeing more deeply there is an abundance of highly cool stuff out there to astonish and amaze. We can never have too much amazement, can we?

​Live in color,
Abby

We are all guilty of returning home from a wonderful vacation with the familiar, iconic photos that resemble postcards, more than a personal experience. The sweeping landscapes dappled with light, the grand cathedral in the bustling square, and let us not forget the ubiquitous sunset saturated with the day's golden afterglow, they all vie for your photographic attention.

​There is nothing wrong with with any of those images, but what does that tell of my personal and emotionally charged experience?

On a recent return visit to San Miguel de Allende, located in central Mexico, I decided I was going to focus only on my abstract impressions of this charming colonial town. The reward of this exercise was that I actually, for the first time, saw this quaint town. Instead of targeting the classic compositions, I concentrated solely on color, shapes and textures. It was liberating.

At this moment in time, I am drawn to the abstractions of the world. I believe abstract images are demanding and require more attention, affording an opportunity to delve deeper into the nature of things, unmasking unique emotional reactions. Abstract photography for me is the art of subtraction, eliminating most everything literal from an image, exposing the subject's true essence.

Leaving behind the postcard images for another photographer, these are my impressions of San Miguel.

​Live in color,
Abby

Can you always trust what you see?

I think not. In these days of Photoshop and advanced photography programs that enhance, tweak and transform, many of the images we see have been altered in some way.

I am currently on a journey, attempting to reveal, dare I say, my inner artist. I start my day by perusing countless photography sites exposing me to not only fabulous photographers, but amazing techniques used in post-processing. Textures, grains, and layers...oh my! There are a myriad of options available to the budding photographer when editing one's images. But the question arises, do I really want to change the photo that much?

I recently completed an artistic photography workshop. Fantastic results were rendered by layering and masking an image. The results were phantasmagorical, highly cool, but not to my taste.

This morning as a walked into my garage, I noticed the window was speckled with frost. There I stood, witnessing the morning's gift, frost. I made an about-face, walked back into the house to grab my camera. With camera and macro lens in hand, I clicked away, trying to catch each perfectly unique formation. My favorite was the one above, which I titled, Keeper of the Crystal.

I showed the above image to a friend and he asked, what did I do to the image to make it look this way, and how did I get that nugget in the center? The short answer, nothing. Sure, I tweaked the basic adjustments and added a vignette, but that's it. I could have added a texture or layers, but I chose not to. Why mess with nature?

A sage once said, "If you can't improve on silence, keep quiet".  Allow me to tweak that by saying, if you can't improve upon natural beauty, do nothing. And that is exactly what I did with this image.
Don't thank me for the image. Thank Mother Nature.

​Live in color,
Abby

​So what does a girl do on a chilly winter's day? Hightail it down to the creek, lay on a slab of ice, and take photos.

Hidden in the solitude of Vermont, if one is crazy enough to withstand frigid temperatures, one can uncover extraordinary hidden treasures. On today's outing I parked myself next to a half frozen river and witnessed the magic.

​In one fell swoop, life is gushing with movement, yet also frozen in time. How does that happen?

My words could not amplify the beauty I found within the ice. I will let the images speak for themselves.

​Live in color,
Abby

Who are we if not our memories?

​A funny thing happens on the way to one's own antiquity. We try to grab on to the fragments of our life, desperately attempting to slow time down. Sadly, that doesn't work. Time marches on, slowing for no one.
If we are smart, we surround ourselves with photographs. Photographs of the good times and of our loved ones, reminding us where we came from, who we once were, and who we think we are today.

In the hall of my home, I once had a wall of family photos spanning decades. Images of my parents as young, impressionable lovers, grandparents long gone, pictures of my son at various stages, along with our dogs, in-laws that have fallen into out-laws, and a slightly faded Kodak print of me, a favorite. It was a shot of me at the tender age of four, or there about, with arms folded, already showing signs of defiance and independence. This photographic walk down memory lane was my window into who I was, and gave a nod to the people that added texture to my life. One day my son referred to this area as, "The wall of the dead,” harsh, but partially true. I quickly removed all the photographs. What I didn't realize at the time was that that wall was my anchor, which mapped out my voyage and my family's evolution. That innocuous wall, strangely, gave me comfort on my current circuitous journey.

Memories aren't stagnant, they are a living grab bag of impressions and experiences that define us and fuel our creativity. So why do we bury away our photographs? Why don't we proudly show off all the phases of our lives?

​What if we were to print a few photographs today? Mount them in our favorite frames and carefully arrange them on our shelves. Flood our memory with images, for our memory is our unique story, revealing how we have grown, not aged.

Live in color,
Abby

Have you had a good rant today?

It seems wherever I look these days someone is going on about the abysmal state we presently live in. Growing up we were told we were the good guys, the reasonable, educated ones, the leaders... How's that working for us? Oh, what a mess we have made on our watch!

​I am not here to be political or to have any neat and tidy solutions, I just want to shed light on something I have noticed with great regularity lately. We have become a country of sheep.

The media is chockablock full of talking heads, all spouting views that instead of being calm, intelligent and rational, ignite and divide. Don't get me wrong, bring on the talking heads, the more views the better, however, how we each deal with them is the real problem.

​When has taking sides become so important? This all seems like high school to me, the need to fit in, bestowing your allegiance to one group, or a way of thinking, to be accepted. What happened to thinking for oneself? How about using the God-given talents we are all have, to form a unique perspective allowing us to assess the situation and work with others, as opposed to fighting with them. It takes a strong person to stand alone and not join an angry mob. It takes a strong person to take the effort to educate oneself from numerous outlets, formulate your own opinion, and not follow the masses.

Sheep have a strong instinct to follow. Back in 2005 a story hit the airwaves about 450 ill-fated sheep. The sheep died as they followed each other off a cliff in the pastoral town of Gevas, Turkey. The fallen sheep plummeted 50 feet, creating a downy pile of carcasses which allowed the fallen stragglers to walk away unharmed. Sheep are social creatures, as we are. Flocking is ingrained in the breed with the notion there is safety in numbers: sound familiar? But are we sheep? More importantly, do you want to be the surviving straggler who walks away unscathed, whose only job is to bury the carcasses?

Live in color,
Abby

The attached photos are from an 2009 excellent adventure to New Zealand with my sister. I knew the photos would come in handy one day.

Happy Holidays

How do you know when winter has arrived?

​During the holiday season, it's easy. We watch the Rockefeller Center tree go up, or see the department store windows explode with gold and crystals in celebration of whatever seasonal holiday you may choose to recognize (how's that for being politically correct). My indicator for the arrival of winter is when my pond forms its first delicate coating of ice.

The summer's pond is an epicenter for the native flora and fauna, all jostling for their piece of this pristine landscape. It's abuzz with fish, birds, turtles, and assorted varments that slink from the woods in the hopes of snaring a tasty morsel.

​Then November comes.

This is a magical time. The turtles somehow know to disappear into their winter dens. The fish begin their sedentary existence in the depths of the water, while the ducks and geese have all flown south. What remains is an uninvited stillness that begins to descend upon the pond with stealth-like precision.

​The forever shifting surface of the summer's water succumbs to quietude as temperatures drop;  while the chill of winter silently extinguishes any visible sign of life. Slowly, without fanfare, one molecule of water at a time, the surface beings to solidify, encasing the once dynamic facade into a veneer of glistening ice. The pond becomes bound in a suspended animation, forced into a frozen dormancy.

Nature is constantly shape shifting, changing and evolving, just as you are. Take the time to immerse yourself in your natural world, for if you blink, you could miss these magical transformations, including your own.

​Live in color,
Abby

This face has haunted me for 9 years now. In 2006 I left my comfy existence in Vermont for an independent tour of Southeast Asia. I flew solo for 3 months testing my courage and resilience on an eye-opening adventure. On a swing through Cambodia, and the obligatory stop at Angkor Wat, I met this young girl. She was just one of many scruffy, yet captivating, children that attempt to endear themselves to the hundreds of tourists that descend upon this sacred site. All this little girl had to do was look at me: I melted, and took this photo.

The New York Times recently published a riveting 3-part story titled, The Displaced, about the 30 million, yes 30 million, children that have been displaced by numerous wars and uprisings around the world.

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/08/magazine/the-displaced-introduction.html?_r=0
Please take a moment to read this article.

30 million children, frightened, homeless and all struggling to survive. Wrap that statistic around your head as you watch your children, or your nieces and nephews, as they clamor for the latest tech thingy or Balmain frock at H&M. Don't get me wrong, I'm not here to rant on the state of the global human condition, or overindulged American youth. I just want, as a photographer, for everyone to see the innocent faces of these children.

We may not be able to appease tyrannical foreign governments, or cool radical extremists, but by looking into the eyes of some of these displaced children, and imagining their struggle, maybe we could do a better job in raising a more compassionate generation. This is happening  on our watch: bad on us. A truly warmhearted generation may have both the understanding and means to make sure this never happens again.

As for my little girl in Cambodia, pictured above, your guess is as good as mine. Is she still living in squalor along the river in Seim Reap? Does she have a young innocent of her own to feed? Is she still even alive? I don't have these answers, but this compelling little girl has touched my heart forever, just like the children in the Displaced story. All these faces have changed how I look at the world and its inhabitants. I have now begun to recognize the worldwide adversity and unfairness, especially for children. Can any of us afford to look away?

A final image of another innocent of Cambodia, taken on the same trip.

​Live in color,
Abby

How do you know when a chapter has come to an end; and how do you rally the courage to write a new one?

​Twenty-five years ago somewhere, deep in my mind's creative lobe, I designed a home that checked all my boxes. It was to be a getaway in the mountains of Vermont but turned into much more; this house became my passion. In just a few short years this dream project went from my imagination to an actual blueprint, to breaking ground. I was involved in every aspect of the design and building process, and loved every second. Nothing was done by chance, everything was intentional, right down to squirreling away crystals in the walls to ensure good vibes.

My son was eight when we first walked the land, we imagined all that we would do on the vast rolling expanse. He was the one that named the property, Wildside, after Lou Reed's classic hit, Walk on the Wild Side. How fitting a name. Over the next twenty plus years we celebrated every holiday in this glorious home, enjoyed all the seasonal activities the Green Mountains had to offer, became an eager student of the mysteries of the woods, and raised 3 Newfoundland dogs, as I watched my son grow into a confident married man, now living aboard.

​In the silence of the star filled evenings of Vermont, I now find myself asking the question, in my life's story, is the chapter titled Wildside coming to an end?

​It's easy to stay put, to keep the status quo, but at what cost? Would I forfeit my next chapter because I am be too comfortable? Am I shying away from new challenges as the years roll by?

I'm not done challenging myself, no matter how titanic the decision of selling the family home is. Growth comes in the uncomfortable and challenging spaces, and the day I stop venturing into uncharted waters, I might as well just pack it in.

​So how does anyone say goodbye to a home that has protected you from the fierce winters, warmed you with its crackling fire, cooled you with its glistening pond in the summer heat, and fed the souls of all that crossed its threshold? I don't have the answer, but what I can tell you is, making the decision is heart wrenching.

Am I ready to write a new chapter? Are any of us really ready?

​Live in color,
Abby

In a 140 character, 24/7, nano second society, can we still appreciate the wisdom of the wise men and women that have walked before us? That was the question I asked myself on the plane ride home from New Mexico, from my weekend immersion into the wisdom of the Mayan culture.

​I had an opportunity to partake in a weekend workshop in northern New Mexico on a sprawling 100 acre compound. The workshop focused on the Council Wheel, a specific form of the American Indian Medicine Wheel. The Council Wheel is an oral tradition that has been handed down to mostly Native American medicine women. It was the women that carried the promise of keeping the culture and wisdom of the Wheel alive. The intrinsic knowledge of the Wheel came from past Chiefs, which addressed the relationship to the earth we share, and our responsibility to the life that emanates from it.

The Council Wheel is a form of crisis management, a problem solving tool that could help a member of a tribe seek clarity to an issue, followed by a recommended course of action. The focus of our weekend workshop was to learn this tool and hopefully apply this ancient wisdom to our frenetic lives.

​Over three days, the eight participants, from various walks of life, delved deeper into the Council Wheel's history and learned of its essential characteristics. In a nutshell, the wheel is divided into eight sections, or lenses, each corresponding to the eight compass directions. The belief is that there is a unique perspective, or insight, that comes from each direction and that wisdom would then be clearly applied to the problem at hand.

On our last evening, under a moonlit sky, we convened a Council Wheel formal gathering. Our eight fearless participants, accompanied by our two attentive directors, made our way through the rugged high desert. We walked in silence past gnarly bush, on a narrow meandering path which lead to an authentic tepee nestled amongst Russian olive trees. Crickets offered a cacophony of sound, emphasizing the stillness and the sacredness of the council. We had been all assigned a role and a direction. A question was posed and after great deliberation, we dispensed wise insight around a blazing fire within the warmth of the tepee.

There is much reflection and ceremony that accompanies the Council Wheel, the gift arrives when we examine a problem from all perspectives, not just one or two. What I found was that there was a great commitment we must take to reap the wisdom of the wheel. It left me wondering, are we, as a modern fast paced culture, really committed to anything anymore to take on such a task?

​It seems always to boil down to commitment; the same commitment that is needed to excel in anything. There are no quick fixes, no magic pills to make us whole, happy and successful. No matter what culture we explore, we can find wisdom. The trick is to find a practice that resonates with us and commit to it.

​Upon awaking on our final morning, I was grateful for the insight into this new way of thinking and glad I now have more tools to add to my trusty toolbox. I was eager to leave the beautiful yet rustic surroundings, the basic cuisine, and most of all, to leave the compost toilet behind. My modern vanities were calling me once again.

After our goodbyes and obligatory hugs, my husband and I hit the road. Vibrating from my newfound wisdom my immediate craving was for a Diet Coke; I'm just a simple girl. We drove though the pedestrian town of Espanola in search of the first fast food joint. We pulled into a Sonic, drove up to the drive-in window where dear husband was so confused by the absence of an actual restaurant, restroom, and completely befuddled by the ordering process and the multitude of offerings, he actually drove out!

​OY, Commitment! Have we lost it?

Live in color,
Abby

Thank you for joining me on this ride.

What direction Perspectives takes is still a mystery to me, like most things in my life. I am hoping this site will be more than pretty images, and intriguing narrative. I am hoping to touch upon life's conundrums, you know, the ones that make you scratch your head and say, WTF.

We all struggle to make sense of life and may take assorted avenues to find meaning and purpose; my avenue of choice is photography. A quality image requires more than the camera of the moment, it requires an investment of my time and energy. If I whittle down, time and energy even further, the real prerequisite in photography is to be present, for it is in the being still that I can touch upon the vital undercurrents and clarity hidden within.

Just as being present is essential for a good photographic image, it is also a requirement for a well-lived life. This week I am off to a Council Wheel workshop in the mountains of New Mexico, uncovering the legacy of the Mayan people. This is cool stuff! This workshop intends to unveil the ancient earth-based traditions of the Yucatan Peninsula, adding relevance to the world around us. The first request from our instructor is the commitment to be present. Hummmmm, its amazing how this being present thing keeps popping up.

I look forward to sharing my Council Wheel experiences with you, along with any fringe and bead laden trinkets I may stumble across. Feathers, leather and beads, oh my!

​Live in Color,
Abby

Where do you go when you need a little calm in your life? When you had it with life's annoyances, where do you retreat to?
Twenty-five years ago I ran away to the woods of Vermont, leaving behind my metropolitan vanities for the simplicity and grandeur of the Green Mountain woodlands. There I found a connection to the natural rhythms of the forest, which is what I needed at the time, however now, it's the ocean that calls me.
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Last month, I boarded a 80 foot schooner in the Boston harbor for a sunset cruise in the attempt to escape the despairing headlines and a frazzled mind. There is something about being on the water that lifts the veil of confusion and allows a momentary respite from life's melodrama. There is also something about watching athletic young men hoist unruly sails, harnessing the swelling canvas and the billowing wind. With the engines off, and sails weighted with the balmy fall breeze, the silence of the water consumes me.

The only request I made of myself while boarding the vessel was to leave my monkeys on the dock. In meditation circles the term "monkey mind" is often used to describe ones overactive mind, comparing it to a horde of monkeys jumping and jabbering, all screeching for your attention. Each monkey has its own agenda and their names are a clue, Lethargy, Abandonment, and the most detestable of all, is the monkey named Fear. Confusion and indecision arise from these rampant primates, and it's our job to tame them. I wanted more than to tame them, I wanted to leave my monkeys behind on the weathered dock.

As the wind picked up, the vessel listed to the starboard side; I hung on to the freshly polished railing, and just smiled. For me, there is nothing to be found on the water except freedom.

We strive to find our unique place in the world, a solid place, sometimes described as one where your feet are firmly on the ground, yet gliding across the oceans wild surface, is anything but solid. So where does this calm come from? Could it be the surrendering to the unknown, accepting the mystery that encompasses us, to just hang on for the ride? It seems the simple act of being or surrendering, buttons ups the incorrigible monkeys, allowing peace and calm.

​My three hour cruise, minus the Professor and Marianne, proved successful; the monkeys stayed stranded on the dock, and on board, a slight chop and clear mind prevailed.

Give yourself a gift and visit your sanctuary today. Reward yourself with a few moments of calm, tame your monkeys, or better yet, leave them on the dock.
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Live in Color,
Abby