I was running just a teeny bit late the other morning.

‘What were you doing?’, he asked.

‘Taking photographs’, I said, and he smiled.

The natural follow up question ‘of what?’ he knows me better than to ask, but it played around in my mind none the less.

What was I taking a photograph, after all?

photo (3)

Nothing, really.

Only clothes pegs.

Only raindrops.

Only the way the light fell on the rain.

Only the look of the morning.

Only September.

Only the hint of autumn in the sky.

Only the way your eye is drawn to the sky.

Only the light.

Only the morning.

It’s nothing, really.

It’s only the way I look, only the choices I make, pretty much each and every morning, (even when I’m running just a teeny bit late), to stop, and look, and notice the day.

It’s a way of looking, a choice of how to look, and that you will.

And there’s something about these pegs that reminds me of what I sometimes (but not always) know, and remember to be true:

That however strange it might be (to others, and to me) that I don’t have dreams of making Art, of selling or exhibiting photographs, of writing books or getting poems published, there is nothing strange at all about the bigger dreams I have:

Of making the time, day in, day out, to stop and notice.

To put my feet firm on the ground and tip my head up to the sky.

To notice raindrops, breathe in light.

To say another and another: thank you, thank you, thank you.