Winter Reflections

For sundry reasons, I haven’t edited and uploaded photographs after recent walks at Lost Lagoon in Stanley Park. Yes, I admit I could have pushed myself harder to bring the Lightroom processing to completion but because I don’t want photography to become a chore, I decided to give myself a break and make resting and reading priorities after finishing the daily to-do/must-do lists. Now, during these latter days of January, I have more free time and energy so I’ll try to catch up before the end of the month. Revisiting these images now after the recent extreme cold and heavy snowfalls gives me comfort in the midst of a growing sense of solastalgia.

Running Toward Autumn

Lost Lagoon, the 23rd of September, 2023

Here is my response to Kaitlin Curtice’s question on Day 6 of a week of poetry: What does it mean to run toward Autumn, ready to learn from the coming season?

 

Run toward Autumn

with heart and senses wide open —
eager for its lessons and gifts.

Now, as you enter the park,

slow your pace, still your mind —
prepare to arrive to yourself.

Follow the path to the lagoon,

step by step,

by sight, by sound, by touch, by smell, by taste.

Gather red maple leaves

snagged by the thorny branches of wild roses — 

hand in hand, walk with Mother Nature.

Cast your gaze across the water

to the far shore of fading greens
where the trees are beginning to turn.

Marvel at the Great Blue Heron,

with his sharp, unblinking eye,

the skilled fisher of three-spined stickleback.

Turn your face to the grey sky,

feel the gentle rain wash away summer's drought and dust —
Breathe in fresh, clean, sweet, cool air.

Slowly, deeply, completely exhale and soften —
release yourself to the natural rhythms

of the breath, of the place, of the season.

You know and love this urban forest,

all that lives and dwells here

in every season, but especially Autumn.

This feels like home.

You feel whole —
and deeply grateful.

 

Juvenile Great Blue Heron at Lost Lagoon, the 23rd of September, 2023