Alone at the edge of the forest. Sap quietly circulating everywhere, like a myriad of creeks finding their way through every twist and turn. Rising through the trunks, splitting at every crossroads, distributing itself through the branches all the way up. Feeding everything. A sea of trees communicating and cooperating through subterranean networks of fungi. One giant organism living, breathing, regulating itself, interacting with the environment. A web of life bringing together plants, fungi, insects, animals. Lifeblood flowing everywhere, unseen and unheard.
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I remember wasps circling around crushed pears fallen from the old tree guarding Grandma’s garden. I remember the doughnut stand in front of the railway station. I remember endless rainy days. The big basin in front of the porch overflowing with rainwater from the drainpipe. I remember the smell of hay. I remember the noises coming from the attic when I couldn’t sleep. I remember the face of Grandma, red and sweaty under her headkerchief from working in the garden. I remember Mom appearing at the other end of the garden when she came to visit. I remember the smell…
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We say that somebody sees the world in black and white when they seem to be lacking nuance and attention to detail and specificity. But there’s a whole world of shades between black and white. A spectrum of nuances and possibilities. And sometimes it’s exactly because we restrict ourselves to black and white that we can better express visually what is unique, interesting, or unusual about our subject.
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What are stories good for? There may be more than meets the eye for us as individuals or as communities.
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A short story from the forest, somewhere on the border between France and Germany. I discovered it during a hike, like so many other things we discover while being in motion.
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We are all faces in the crowd unless somebody looks at us with the kind of attention and care that takes us out of the crowd. The attention and care that reveals what is unique and lovable and just ours. Or unless we can look at ourselves like that. Tough call. In this week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge, John asks us to explore what it means to be a face in the crowd. Or to be portrayed as one.
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I woke up suddenly in the dark. Somebody had just called my name. Was I dreaming? A long time ago, when I was living at my grandma’s and I couldn’t sleep, I used to listen to the noises coming from the attic. Mice looking for food. I knew that, but I couldn’t help imagining other things going on at night. Things that materialized when the conditions were right and began manifesting themselves in the world. Things that were not exactly alive but could make themselves felt among the living.
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We listen to stories and tell stories as a way of dealing with change, impermanence, and vulnerability. In doing so, we discover that stories are bigger than our particular readings and understanding of them. They go beyond the storyteller.
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This week, Amy invites us to explore different ways of framing photos. What is framing? For me, it’s how we use physical delimitations, leading lines, light, color, texture, and focus to highlight the photo’s subject matter and to create a coherent narrative.
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A little photo story from a city I love. Alfama is the oldest neighborhood of Lisbon. It lies on the hills between the São Jorge Castle and the Tagus river. Its name comes from the Arabic al-ḥamma, meaning “hot fountains” or “baths”.