Photographic snatches of beauty in a fast-paced world.

Life is too swift for words these days. But pictures, I’ve managed a few of those. I’ve caught the following images here and there over the past weeks, snatched them from the river of time and held them a moment in my hand. As I looked, I felt suspended from the bustle of life just for the briefest instant. Beauty, I think, slows time, if you are willing to stop. Beauty weaves quiet about itself, if you are willing to listen. I was. I did. And this is what I found:

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Water runs to the sea. Clouds follow. And the leaves turn their last dance to death between them.

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Ladybug parade.

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I can’t believe I’m posting this. Spiders freeze me to my marrow with fear. But this one, I can’t help myself. It’s actually beautiful.

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A new teacup from a friend. The gold pattern and the late light, ah.

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A nighttime ramble at a historic house whose gardens were decked out in light sculptures and art. This was a field of poppies, I think. When I was a child, I could spend hours out in the darkened, dappled yards of homes bedecked in Christmas lights. They shadows and stars offered a world between night and day, waking and dreams. I remembered that yen as I walked.

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When this masterpiece of a crimson leaf fell out of a heavy old book as I restacked my shelves, I could have cheered. I love the crimsons of autumn on the east coast. Aspen gold is a wealth of its own, but sometimes I miss my reds.

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A trail of sun pennies scattered along the plains. I watched them as I flew home from a recent trip and wondered… where might they lead?

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And this last picture puts me in mind of Robert Louis Stevenson’s splendid poem The Celestial Surgeon. I’ll leave you with his galvanizing words:

If I have faltered more or less,
In my great task of happiness;
If I have moved among my race
And shown no glorious morning face;
If beams from happy human eyes
Have moved me not; if morning skies,
Books, and my food, and summer rain
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:-
Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,
Choose thou, before that spirit die,
A piercing pain, a killing sin,
And to my dead heart run them in!

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