Morning Light | Early Autumn
I was on my way to physical therapy when the receptionist called to let me know they had to cancel my appointment for today. I decided to make the best of the day, stopping to take pictures along roads I hadn’t explored in a long while.
It’s a hard truth, and really not something I like to discuss in this space. I live with way too much pain these days. I try not to focus on pain, try not to let it define me. But some days are a struggle. And if I am honest, I am afraid that my body will prevent me from doing the things I love, like photography.
“If you’re not watchful, the wonderful is made mundane. But on a good day the mundane can be made miraculous.”
I follow many insightful writers and compelling photographers, and some of these folks have become friends over the years. Some I find by way of fine art websites like Lenscratch or Lensculture and these are often people who create as a profession. They have training and awards and long lists of accomplishments. But I also follow a good many ordinary people who make art for the sheer joy of the experience. They learn as they go and put their work out into the world hoping it will land in a soft place. These are my people and one of them is my friend, Elaine Eppler, who shares all things botanical and floral and beautiful over at Greens & Berries.
Thanks, Elaine, for directing me to the work of Ella Saunders and these words to live by : I think you should know what it feels like to walk through wet grass and early spiderwebs while half the world is falling back to sleep.
There are some pictures that I only want to take once, and then I am done. This doesn’t happen much anymore . . . mostly this occurred as I was learning and had an ongoing list of photographs I wanted to try. This was part of learning the craft and developing my voice.
These days I like to sink deeply into my work and into the subject. Such is the case with these persimmons. I’ve tried to take photos of wild persimmons several times over the years, and always with mixed results. The tree can be a scraggly grouping of branches with a handful of persimmons on the side of the road or a robust trunk with cascading branches heavy-laden with fruit. The leaves are usually curled and dry with brown spots and holes.
I’ve been visiting this persimmon tree, located in an old cemetery, almost every day, waiting for the fruit to ripen. My mother warned us as children not to eat persimmons because they would “turn your mouth inside out.” This was enough to scare us and we never tried the persimmons that grew wild near the beach at home. Persimmons are astringent and will immediately dry out the inside of your mouth if they are not ripe. And ripe for a persimmon means mushy with the skin so fragile it almost melts in your hand. The flesh is sweet and sticky and can be used for jams and puddings and cakes, and even candy.
Persimmons ripen from mid-September on up to November, and I am hoping they will last until the first frost for more picture-taking. This is joyful work and I keep reminding myself to wait, pause, and slow down.
