I go and get the camera and do it. Photography is a medium in which if you don’t do it then, very often you don’t do it at all, because it doesn’t happen twice.”

– Paul Strand

The house is cold, even though the heat has kicked on, The sun is just rising and a thick bank of clouds hangs over the lake. I am the first one up, and know my husband will sleep another couple of hours, but it is not long before the dog wanders out looking for me. I open the door to the quiet, and watch him slip out the door, nose in the air, and before I even have the door closed he is baying. He runs randomly, trying to pick up the trail of the scent driving him. I watch as he crisscrosses our back deck and see the footprints right away. Slipping on my coat and shoes, I grab the treats, hoping the raccoon is long gone. He finally gives up the chase and trots over to claim his reward for keeping our yard safe. Hoping my neighbors slept through the commotion we both come back inside. I watch as he posts himself where he will have a clear view of the back yard, just in case. The room is dark, but I go and get my camera anyway. Because if I don’t do it now, it won’t get done.

The sun rises fast, and with the light I can see the frost. We both head back outside to welcome this winter day.

"And" seems to me closest. "And" nods toward the real. And "and" is the path to perspective. To feel and see from more angles and know all of them true, even the incomprehensible ones, even the ones that contradict one another.

- Jane Hirshfield

I am not sure what I am after. The wind is playing gently among the leaves, causing the light to dance and change and bounce around. I get frustrated, knowing I won’t get the focus I think I want. I stand back and just watch for what seems like a very long time. It feels uncomfortable, a bit silly even. But I stand firm, until tiny nuances begin to emerge, beyond the obvious. I adjust my settings, and play with moving my camera a bit, and even then I am not sure what I am after. Later on, I settle on one to share, hoping to remember how it felt to just stand back and consider the options,, one that speaks truth and hope and a little bit of bravery.

“Think about the trains you will take, not the trains you missed!” 

― Mehmet Murat ildan

So many of the subjects I point my camera at remind me of my father. I never pass up a train track. I have captured this one in Bellingham Bay often. On this day it was cloudy, and the air was crisp. The bay was quiet, the water calm. I shared the space with a couple sharing their lunch, and several gulls. I had been birthday shopping and on a whim stopped by on my way home, happy I had tucked my camera into my bag.

To espresso or to latte, that is the question...whether 'tis tastier on the palate to choose white mocha over plain...or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache.

-Jasper Fforde

I remember the year I took a photo of my morning latte almost every day. I followed along with others who were doing the same on Instagram. I even turned some of those shots into a tiny book. Today I might take a photo with my phone, especially if I am out and about and the barista has done magic with that foam, but for the most part I have lost interest. But this morning was different. I wanted to pay homage to this part of my day, for it is a constant, something I look forward to even as I am crawling into bed the night before. I am picky about my coffee beans, picky about the milk, and my mug. It is the solo dance I do, in the dark of the kitchen, as the sun rises over the lake, the ritual that sets the stage for the day ahead.

“Living in a holler, the sun gets around to you late in the day, and leaves you early.” 

― Barbara Kingsolver, Demon Copperhead

I am stuck at home, with a cold. The first one I have had in years. I read, the dog laying beside me fighting with this huge book for a spot on my lap. I am restless and bored, and my mind grows more and more impatient with my body. As the day wears on I watch the weather outside our family room doors change from rain, to cloud, to sun. As the sun comes out, filling the room with that kind of haze that you can see and feel, I turn, allowing the out flow of those rays to soothe me. After all it is just a common cold . . .

If you get the chance to read Demon Copperhead, do it!

“The dog is the perfect portrait subject. He doesn’t pose. He isn’t aware of the camera.” 

– Patrick Demarchelier

Baker and I participate in a fun group on Flickr called 52 weeks for dogs. The idea is to take a photo of your dog every week of the year and post it in the group. It is a fun group, no pressure other than meeting the Sunday evening deadline each week, and a love for dogs. Last year we did pretty good, only missing a few weeks here and there. He is a good subject, very corporative, especially if I have a treat in my hand, and has a face made for the camera. You can expect to see more of him this year.

Because of the dog's joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift. It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

- Mary Oliver

“I could feel the day offering itself to me,
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment-but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,” 

― Billy Collins, The Trouble With Poetry - And Other Poems

On a whim, I stop by the tiny park not far from our house. The parking lot is empty but I see a dog walker following one the few paths that cut through the forest while parking the car. I take the short path towards the lake, which I can see is high and muddy so I turn back towards the little patch of woods towering overhead. I listen to the birds, taking note of the quiet. I take a few photos of moss, decayed leaves, and one of the little stream that flows towards the lake. I stop and pet the dog, giving him the treat I find in my pocket while exchanging a few words with his owner. It is not until I head back towards the car that I notice the tiny mushrooms growing out of the moss on a nearby tree. I step over broken limbs and branches, slipping on a pile of slippery leaves, and make it to where the tree stands. What makes this the one, I wonder. For isn’t all of the tiny forest worthy of my attention? How often do I skim over moments worth noting, in search of a more?

Something worth thinking about.