Come Rain or Shine

Daily photo walks. And Autumn day trips.

Come rain or shine, this ritual helps me to see the changes in nature and practice noticing.

This practice is transformative as it reminds me that I am not responsible for everything. That I can care for others without carrying them.

These walks contribute to the foundation of my very own art curriculum.

Thank you to my friend Susie who introduced me to this idea: making a commonplace notebook to collect ideas, information, and quotes I love—all stored in this one place.

Is that what this notebook already is? Have I been keeping a commonplace notebook on this website all this years without having a proper name or label for the practice? I think the answer is yes.

Foraging for time this fall.

A Kernel of Truth

. . . there’s a little of me in every picture I take.

“I almost never make up anything. I just notice different things.” —Patricia Lockwood (by way of Austin Kleon’s weekly newsletter)

Wherever You Are

Chatham Manor, Sedum, September 2025

I am fortunate to have my very own personal poetry guide. I’ve followed Jan Falls and her Heart Poems for years. She faithfully delivers poetry to my Inbox on a regular basis. Each post includes her own thoughtful interpretation of the poem. Jan shares, line-by-line, how and why the poem is significant for her. How the poem makes her feel and act differently. How the poetry helps her to live in this world with authenticity. In this way, she has become a dear friend. Jan introduces me to poetry that touches my heart and helps me to see the meaning of my photographs. Here’s the poem she shared today.

 

wherever you are
 
Wherever you are, be there. Take up space. Occupy the full dimension.
Unfold the map of your body. Celebrate its topographical wonder,
its unpredictable weather. Make a pool of your movements, then swim
through the ripples, parting the room with your footsteps. Make no apology
for the squeak of your soles, how your jacket swishes at your thighs, that the dust
is making you sneeze. Consider it all a kind of orchestra, you tuning the keys,
you lifting the horn of your whole self to the air. Let the notes of you blast out,
at a register and speed that won’t leave you hungry or empty. Let anyone hear,
as they walk by with their shoulders up, pretending not to listen. Wherever you are,
remember why you are here: to sing.

—by Maya Stein

Teaching Tools

Wow, taking photos in bright, high contrast light is a challenge. The farm doesn’t open to visitors until 9am, so I can’t take pictures during the beautiful soft light of early, early morning. I make the most of the situation. These morning walks are hands-down the best thing I do for myself. I am my best self during these photo walks—and often for the rest of the day. My most grounded. My most self-assured. My safest and most challenged at the same time. The best I can do with words is to say that I feel expansive.

Braehead Farm, Pumpkins | September 2025

I am happy taking the pictures, but then I am perplexed as to how to process them. What shall I do when much of the subject is dirt? When the scene is the deep nature of things and nature is often decaying and disordered, chaotic and cluttered. The subject is not clearly defined; it is up to me to direct the viewer’s eye to what and how I see.

I think a lot about how to see, in all of its meanings. I read a wonderful post by Nedra Glover Tawwab, What we Know Now: Showing Ourselves Grace for Past Decisons. I love her take on hindsight.

Hindsight is a gift, not a shaming tool, but we often use it as the latter. We tell ourselves that if we hadn’t ignored that red flag, or hadn’t listened to this person, or had listened to our gut, we wouldn’t be in the position we’re in. Hindsight is not meant for us to beat ourselves up, it’s meant to offer us lessons. Hindsight provides us with information that we can use in the future, not give ourselves a hard time about the past. We don’t always make the best choices or listen to our own instincts. That’s a part of life . . . Past mistakes are teaching tools.