Tucked over behind the electric grid, underneath the bridge that would take you from downtown Dallas to Kessler, was a curio shop brimming with trinkets. The second room to the left, after entering the store, was chock full of vintage Christmas ornaments grouped beautifully by color. I remember an entire table of eggshell blue ornaments on one side of the room, and on the other, a display of dusty pinks and gold, and that precise moment when that became one of my favorite color combinations. I spent hours wandering the shop and more hours picking through the holiday treasures of that little room.
I revel in an instant - mindful presence, seizing the fleeting moment, asking your mind to fill in the sensory blanks. Mine is an exploration of purpose and meaning, strung lovingly with snapshots of time from the instant to the infinite with people I love, connecting time, recording it, puzzling it together into a massive joiner of my own creation.
And in the clearing, between the formations, as the light of late afternoon filters through the trees, they stand, dancing to music only they can hear.
I wonder how long he has been sitting at attention waiting for them to come back, perking up with each footfall of some passerby heading to their room, all the while anticipating the rubs and cuddles that happen at the end of the day.
And as I turn away from the tripod, I see him toss her, as only father's can, into the air, well above the horizon of our village in the distance. I pull the camera to my eye and say, "do it again."
The light is fading. The damp sea air cloyingly envelops me as I stand in front of the christmas tree on the deserted beach.
It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: "Peace on the earth, good will to men, From heaven's all-gracious King." The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.
It is the light that catches my eye, the hot spot just above the bar, patrons in silhouette, in the late hours of the evening. We are walking back towards the hotel, and the gooey goodness of the smore's that wait there for us when the appreciation for familiarity and the comfort of good friends reminds me of home and our Saturday night spot.
I find myself, in the earliest morning hours, on the roof of this, the parking deck of the downtown Los Angeles Flower Market, minutes after the 6 am public opening. I have wandered here to honor this day as the contrast of city night lights meets the rising sun and the world comes into new balance. The energy of the street level predawn movement of people and plants, the rhythms of this market, left me longing for quiet spaces.
The blue hour at this house made famous in that movie years ago. It is quiet, the tree lighting long since finished and the crowds dispersed. The chill in the air, the stillness, the light, is not at all like it is during those summer months of visitors from near and far. And after I take the last photograph, I sit in the sand and breath in the moment that twilight turns to night.