Every person’s memory is their own private literature.
— Aldous Huxley
And I have memories that stretch across several decades of early evenings at Hartwick Pines state park in northern Michigan.
I knew, of course, that trees and plants had roots, stems, bark, branches
and foliage that reached up toward the light. But I was coming to realize
that the real magician was light itself“.
Sometimes the most profound awakenings come wrapped
in the quietest of moments
The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.
The layers of the forest create an ever-changing melody of light and shadow.
Summer sounds of a whispering brook and the sunlight pours down like a gentle balm.
I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.
The University of Michigan has a wonderful botanical gardens a short drive away from me. Always a rewarding visit, especially as summer reaches full bloom.
It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air, that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.
___Robert Louis Stevenson
photo taken in a quiet space for renewal, Kensington Park, just northwest of Detroit, an area of wooded hills and lakes set aside 100 years ago by someone with great foresight.
If the path be beautiful let us not ask where it leads
If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?
–Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Nobel laureate for literature, Soviet Gulag survivor