Saturday, August 8, 2015

in my mother's garden

august 2015. in my mother's garden . . . the subtleties abound at this time of year. her flowers are almost done, the ferns are past their emerald effulgence, and yet there are gentle reminders to slow down, even to stop. somewhat like those that my mother brings to play when we are together.

she is old enough (and certainly wise and rich in life's passages enough) to be able to suggest that "it doesn't matter", with the sort of gentle authority that bears witness to a deep experiencing of all - all that life has to offer . . . .




3 comments:

The Dutchess said...

yes..what's another year...time is like water..

throughstones said...

Do you find the seasons pass so much more quickly as one gets older? Or is it that we become more and more aware of life's fleeting quality?

steven said...

hello "throughstones". for me those are braided questions. briefly, in answer to the first ... yes, the measure of the skin of this place seems to move more quickly for me as i get older. to answer the second question ... i have, in my own experiencing of this place, found that i have become much more interested in slowing down and becoming sensitive to what i think of as "surfacings" in which an unfolding moment gets held - either by the camera, my paintbrush, or my senses - and steps outside of time.