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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,
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--
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
Live in color,
Abby
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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.
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
Abby
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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.
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.
Abby
Look very closely at the first image, locate the gate and pass through to the divine.
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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.
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.
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.
In every school there was at least one or two children with some type of disability. That was the heartbreaking part of our visits. With limited resources and remote locations these children languished in their own world, generally isolated from rambunctiousness of the others.
Each day, there were different schools with classrooms that were equally organized, except one.
One morning, we piled into our cars as usual, hearing, “We are visiting a slum today.” The word slum, I don’t think registered with me.
After a short drive we pulled up to a dirt settlement, strewn with stick structures. Walls exposed, with flimsy blue tarps acting as a roof. My cosmopolitan vanities were in shock. I felt I just walk into a National Geographic cover story. The tears began to stream down my face.
Each day, there were different schools with classrooms that were equally organized, except one.
One morning, we piled into our cars as usual, hearing, “We are visiting a slum today.” The word slum, I don’t think registered with me.
After a short drive we pulled up to a dirt settlement, strewn with stick structures. Walls exposed, with flimsy blue tarps acting as a roof. My cosmopolitan vanities were in shock. I felt I just walk into a National Geographic cover story. The tears began to stream down my face.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The day of my audience with His Holiness began at 8am. I entered the grounds of his residence flanked by armed guards. I needed to go through four stages of security: passport and visa check, removal of all bags, phones and cameras, a complete body scan by elegant Tibetan women, followed by a metal detector. The last and final prep, my hands were sanitized. The entire event was so well orchestrated by tall, handsome Tibetan men in suits speaking perfect English, wearing gleaming smiles. There were about 100 people in attendance, all lined up, sitting on a low concrete wall in front of a glass building with a large plush chair in waiting.
Exactly at 9am, silently, a golf cart pulls up in front of the glass building, stopping in front of the plush chair. The Dalai Lama exits the cart with assistance, flanked by the suited men and monks. He seemed vibrant yet had difficulty walking. Once seated, the procession of admirers began to move. There were photographers on each side of His Holiness to document this memorable day for each attendee. Each person was introduced, their first name was announced and the country they were from. A humble bow by the attendee, a blessing, then on to the next. When it was my turn, it all became a blur. I barely heard my name announced, the next thing I knew I was standing in front of the highest spiritual leader and head of Tibetan Buddhism. He took my hand and I bowed before him, wishing him a long life. Then I squeezed his hand hard, looked directly into his eyes and said, “We need you.” His handlers started ushering me away, however the Dalai Lama stopped them and said to me through a translator, “You know, I plan on living till 110.” Again I squeezed his hand and without missing a beat said, “No! 120.” He laughed along with his handlers and I was ushered away.
Exactly at 9am, silently, a golf cart pulls up in front of the glass building, stopping in front of the plush chair. The Dalai Lama exits the cart with assistance, flanked by the suited men and monks. He seemed vibrant yet had difficulty walking. Once seated, the procession of admirers began to move. There were photographers on each side of His Holiness to document this memorable day for each attendee. Each person was introduced, their first name was announced and the country they were from. A humble bow by the attendee, a blessing, then on to the next. When it was my turn, it all became a blur. I barely heard my name announced, the next thing I knew I was standing in front of the highest spiritual leader and head of Tibetan Buddhism. He took my hand and I bowed before him, wishing him a long life. Then I squeezed his hand hard, looked directly into his eyes and said, “We need you.” His handlers started ushering me away, however the Dalai Lama stopped them and said to me through a translator, “You know, I plan on living till 110.” Again I squeezed his hand and without missing a beat said, “No! 120.” He laughed along with his handlers and I was ushered away.
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.
When I’m on a solo adventure, I want to be challenged. I want all my senses to be activated, to be stretched beyond my comfort level. That’s when I find out who I am and what I am made of. This trip challenged me more than expected but, it also rewarded me beyond my wildest dreams.
Thank you India.
Live in color,
Abby
Thank you India.
Live in color,
Abby
“My religion is kindness” His Holiness the Dalai Lama
To learn more about The Pencil Tree: https://penciltree.com.au/
Any level of sponsorship would be greatly appreciated. You have the power to change the trajectory of a child’s life today.
Any level of sponsorship would be greatly appreciated. You have the power to change the trajectory of a child’s life today.
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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.
nothing to do,
I be.
Live in Color,
Abby
Abby
- Published on
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.
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.
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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
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
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
Seek out the silent places.
The places that do not scream for attention,
but simply invite in
and embrace you.
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.
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
Abby
- Published on
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
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