Every once in awhile, this magical thing happens to me.
I’ll be plowing through my day, hurried and tense, when suddenly I’ll stumble over a little loveliness, left behind by my past self.
It’s like a gift, really: the rose petal pressed between two pages. The poem scribbled on a cocktail napkin, tucked in my coat pocket.
Today though, I found a gift on the memory card of my beat-up old Canon Rebel:
I don’t know how it happened, but I must have forgotten to load a set of photos from last Fall, because when I plugged in my camera cable and flicked my Rebel on to download new material, a sudden wash of yellow blazed across the screen — the unmistakable colors of Autumn.
I was a little sad back then: my heart still raw over a dear friend who’d hurt me. But an aching heart is good for art — every artist knows that — because it’s hungry for the Light.
(And when it comes to the Light, hungry is a good thing to be.)
I still remember taking these shots: in a sudden fit of frustration, I’d pulled the lens off my camera and simply held it in place, letting the light leak through.
The result is a series of unedited shots that look like watery Impressionist brushstrokes, washed with sun, messy and soft:
And I needed messy and soft today…
Maybe you do, too. ❤