Every morning has its own story. We usually let each other in on them too... busy morning, rough mornings, lazy morning, crazy morning. But it has been a discovery to me to see how holding a camera in my hands or over my shoulder has begun to help me notice many more details than just the way the activity of the hours flowed.
There are all the varied flowers and the particular way they are placed on a hillside, or pushing their way through stones or man laid bricks, the way the light hits them or the dew has sprinkled them with a mist. I see colors, even if it is just the shades of gray in a stormy sky and the way the white foam of the sea stands out so brilliantly like a big milk moustache painting the lip of the sandy shore.
And the people, oh the people in all their array of activities and accessories that shroud or perhaps even begin to tell a part of the stories that are hidden behind their eyes... the joys or sorrows they have known this day, this week, in the history that has brought them here. And beyond that, the simple things that make a neighborhood, a city, a country be all that it is in its beauty and thriving way of life, in its flaws and misplaced assumptions.
It is almost staggering how much there is to really see on any given day. And of course, it always begins and ends right here, where my own little stories happen, which on this day included a morning glory and a girl wanting to dress like her brother who wanted to dress like his dad.
[where did that bug go]