Nearly a decade past, my wife and I moved out into the suburbs of Boston. It was time. We both spent years studying and working within the inner Boston beltway. Everything is to schedule, everything is precise. The busy hustle and non-stop drone that emanates from the cityscape slowly becomes part of normalcy. It feigns convenience. Yet, it provides little more than a dull persisting ache on the soul. It was time to slow down. Seek to relax. To re-prioritize. To blur precision with creativity.
Quite, cool morning breeze, darkened star lit skies, the rich smell of the soil, the sound of leaves rustling and trunks creaking from the storm, cardinals shyly visiting the feeder, chipmunks eating the strawberries. This is normalcy. This is the soul.
As we enjoy the quite comforts of our abode, warmth from a wood fired stove keeps us content as the winter slowly slips back into spring. Life begins to stir after the restful hibernal lull.
Solid granite stone, compressed then stretched by tidal force and carved throughout the millennia by the crashing of the cold Atlantic sea. Nutrients and minerals unceremoniously awarded by the hard hand of nature to the undersea life hidden away.
The mechanical machinations of man brings us industry and prosperity. Through ingenuity, society builds upon the past to bring efficiencies to the masses.
A textile factory, harvesting nature of water for steam, provides it with artificial life.
Now abandoned. Haunted and devoid of it’s human masters as the march of progress sheds the burden and leaves it only for history to admire. Never again alive, only it’s shadows remain.
Nature, uncoupled from the shackles of men, builds upon it’s own. It’s history, within, survives the generations and continues to live. Ignorant of burden, progress, and industry.
A paddleford truss and arch bridge, constructed of old growth timber in 1858, a confluence of nature and civilization, the new interspersed alongside the old.
Time does not seek change. It is empty. It is lifeless. Yet it breathes and, without permission nor reflection, propels us forward. Unrelenting and uncaring. Without pause. Without remuneration. Forward.
The imaginary clock, ticking, echoes deep within our imagination bringing us closer to our destination. A destiny determined and fixed. A destination that is known but does not exist.
It is without our permission. This drives us, it reminds us. We remain belligerent but without recourse. We can only spite the progress of time through reflection as we intersperse the new amongst the old.
The summer solstice arrives, long days of sunlight encouraging us to toil about while ensuring the occasional afternoon naps under the warm summer sun and the cooling evening breeze.
We invite some friends into our refuge as we daydream of dinosaurs taking residence within the wispy clouds above.
Really, really, cool man. Sort of where I am in life.
I love the black and white photography. I went back to college in 1995 and was maybe one of the last classes ever to teach darkroom photography, heh.
Your thread is also deep and poetic. I can empathize as my little 3/4 of an acre keeps me involved on so many levels. It’s me and my birds and insects along with the occasional other 4 (and 2!) legged critters who seem to be completely comfortable with living so close and comfortable to me, with a mutual respect.
I was going to say more, but, it’s the pot starting to talk now.
Are your photos shot on a digital camera? I can appreciate the darkroom effect. Very nice editing.
Mind if I ask what field your wife and you worked?
Ooops. I just saw that your thread is locked. I’m sorry, and you are welcome to delete my posts.
Your thread is a wonderful piece of art and humility, and should stir the souls of anyone reading it. Excuse my mistaking it as a normal thread. Thanks, peace
Shorter days and cooler nights brings upon productivity as the plants settle into the coming twilight. Mycorrhizae steps up it’s game as the plants begin to demand a new, refreshed, palette to draw it’s inspiration from.
I just saw that your thread is locked. I’m sorry, and you are welcome to delete my posts.
