Works of art are not born in flashes of inspiration but in a daily fidelity.
Albert Camus
Where I live each condo has one numbered parking spot. The numbers are painted on the pavement and are now quite faded. This time each year we have a major turnover of residents due to college students. I now find some of the new residents parking in my space and others. Rather than be angry or say anything, I have begun to park in open spaces which means I may need to walk an extra 20 or 30 feet. Could it be that I’m finally growing into a mature adult? Or maybe I’m becoming more childlike than childish?
You recognize your God as everyone’s God. And not only among Jews and Christians and Muslims do you see the reflected face of the One. When the climber reaches the summit and gazes out at a thousand miles of mountains and valleys, there is the One. When the mother pushes through shattering pain to give birth, and the infant sucks in his first breath and expels his wild wail, there is the One. When the father drops to his knees in the military cemetery after burying his son and wraps his arms around his own heaving chest, there is the One. In our first kiss, in our final embrace, there is the One.
The One shows up in Native lodges and Hindu temples, in the deep quiet of Zen meditation halls and in the ecstatic whirling of dervishes. The One whispers through the words of the poets, through the curving lines of painters, sculptors, and woodcarvers; through symphony and hip-hop, Gregorian chant, hymns in praise of Mother Mary, devotional songs to Lord Shiva; through tobacco and cornmeal offered at dawn to the Great Spirit. The One makes an appearance in the heart of the self-described atheist, who gasps in wonder at the beauty of an unexpected snow that fell during the night, carpeting the garden with jewels of frozen light. The One reveals itself as the compassionate Father and the protective Mother, as unrequited Lover and loyal Friend, residing always at the core of our own hearts, and utterly invisible. The One transcends all form, all description, all theory, categorically refusing to be defined or confined by our human impulse to unlock the Mystery. And the One resides at the center of all that is, ever-present and totally available. You remember, and forget, and remember again: beckoned with a thousand names, limited by none, the God you love is One.
Fall colors on Roaring Fork River in October of 2003
“Our elders say that ceremony is the way we can remember to remember. In the dance of the giveaway, remember that the earth is a gift that we must pass on, just as it came to us. When we forget, the dances we’ll need will be for mourning. For the passing of polar bears, the silence of cranes, for the death of rivers and the memory of snow.”
Robin Wall Kimmerer
This quote reminded me of my visit to the Roaring Fork River back in 2003. I went up there with a fellow photographer to share expenses and have my first visit to the Smoky Mountains. It was also my first year with my first digital camera, a Nikon D100. I was very impressed with the beauty of this area. Someday I would like to make a return visit.
