Yesterday sunset found me at the back-water area called Lake Caroline, watching great egrets float over my car in pairs, anhingas flapping their wings open to catch the final mite-killing rays of sunlight, and great blue herons squaking over it all. Several unique water-fowl sounds could be heard. My heart was happy to hear those most pleasant sounds that I termed Sanctuary Symphony.
The huge oak leaves that catch a breeze and drift their path to the ground somewhere at the end of the year in what we call “Louisiana Autumn” fascinate me. Easily bigger than my hand, it is the veins that stand out to me. The network of life, once full of vitality, ended. Oh, how could it be that this same process will happen to me one day? My own energy will wane, leave me, and I too, will find my path to the ground.
Perhaps that’s why seasons exist; each time, a chance to grow and perfect our lives, to become what we feel is our best self.
Looking at this leaf fills me with wonder and respect for the life it was. Hoping that when my life has come to an end that others can feel the same about me.
“Crisp, fall leaves rustle, whispering a message that only my soul can understand.” -KC
The approach of a cold front has me looking through some of my Louisiana “wintery” photos this evening. I just love this photo. It was a very quiet and still that morning, laden with fog and frost. I stopped briefly to take the shot and the horses never even looked up. What strikes me most about the photo is how that tree looms through the fog in the background.
And guess what? That tree is gone now. I was sad to see it go, and this evening reminded me again that appreciating what we have and what is around us right now is so very important because we never know how long it will be here.
I appreciate you for spending some time to look at my photo, and just maybe, to connect with what I wrote and to pass on your gratitude to others too. Thank you.
This photo popped up in a folder today, forgotten until now. The moment I looked at it, I felt like I was looking into my soul. Like I had parted the blinds and was looking out into the big unknown. What seems like so little is honestly so much. The colors are a wash of blues and grays, but the content is ME. The smooth, even-tempered surface of the water, the occasional floating water weed constantly shifting it’s place in the universe of the lake, the cypress trees always standing watch like sentinels, and the horizon, building with energy and motion.
It gave me both a peek into the world and myself. Too often I forget that my very self is reflected in what I see. And what I might otherwise dismiss, is breathtaking if I take the time to look.