The days seem full and long; the weeks zip by like the morning’s first cup of coffee.
It’s been a while since I last posted; I’ve been nesting and resting. Forgive me.
Here is a day in the life; yesterday, in my life.
A big man, Indigenous
With wilderness in his mind
Coffee freely offered
Brings an offering of gratitude
Passersby engage or shun
Gaining momentum
Fearful of the irregular actions of
A big man, Indigenous
A hearse passes
The line of cars streaming behind
A big man, Indigenous
Stands, crosses himself, bows his head
A young Black man stops, shakes hands
Says good morning
A big man, Indigenous
I will offer a bite to eat as I leave
The police chief visits
A big man, Indigenous
No move along, no aggression
Equals in their place
He walks, not well, right knee seized
A little wildness in his gait
A big man, Indigenous
Shakes his head, steps a fancy dance
Away across the street
A big man, Indigenous
Follows his morning agenda
I slink out the back door
Good intention devoid of action
Timber Press will release Best Little Book of Birds: Coastal Washington in June. Look for it at your favorite local bookstore – and if you can’t find it there because, say, you live in Oklahoma, I recommend ordering it directly from Timber Press (available for preordering, too) or from Powell’s Books.
WooHoo!
Gratitude to the amazing photographers Steve Lenz, Greg Smith, and Matt Vann and to the Timber Press team of editors, photo editors, layout and design people, and the whole crew that worked behind the cover, unseen and unnamed. Thank you!
As you may know, I moved recently, and for the first time in almost three years, I’ve unpacked everything. I’m not long in the furniture department, but I’ve got rocks, shells, and bones covered, from Australian abalone to obsidian blocks and a complete moose skeleton.
Who needs chairs?
I’m back in the land of sky and light.
The earth spins through the ephemeral colors of the day. The ethereal light of morning is luminous. The sunset gradient passes from the sun’s flame to cool atmospheric blue in a hair’s breadth and illuminates the setting moon.
This year’s photos cross landscapes and time, the eternal and ephemeral. From the spiraling mazes of Southwest canyons to the glowing night sky of the Arctic and a handful of people in between, 2023 was about scale.
May 2024 flow easily and provide expanded horizons.
Thanks for tagging along. xoxo T
My time in Svalbard is rapidly slipping away. The dark is comforting, always there, no matter the hour or weather. There is no need to rush to catch the last bit of the day before sunset. I draw the curtains against street lights.
The moon is back. It rose above the horizon the other day, almost full. It fills the clouds, and the mountains glow snowy bright, rivaled only by Mine 7’s reflected light.
I am ridiculously grateful for a smartphone smart enough to capture the dark. My night photography camera skills are lacking, as is a tripod.
As indoor light exceeds the outdoor light, the regular 0916 library photo becomes increasingly sharper images of me in front of the library stacks. Night is taking hold, and with it comes new light– town, bonfires, the moon, and aurora take the sky.
Photos of houses and buildings that aren’t falling into the ground are not my specialty, but it seems incomplete to give the impression that there are no people or infrastructure in Svalbard. This is a company town transitioning into a tourist destination. The coal industry is being consciously closed as the government introduces its green sustainability agenda and levies the draw of the north for those who recognize its rapid decline.
The town is nestled in a valley (read never gets sun even when the sun never sets). The north end of town touches the fjord. To the east and west are high plateaus that climb straight from town, level out, and hold the town between their arms. Uphill, to the south, is a glacier. This confuses me almost daily. I expect glaciers to the north, and going south always feels like downhill, according to Ents, so this is a double cross of my wiring.
Housing is mostly company-owned, apartments and row houses in bright colors are nestled below the avalanche fences on the east side of town and the now-derelict coal shuttle structures. Across town and the river, the church takes the high ground. Although it, too, is in a high-risk avalanche zone, no fence has been built above the church yet. Walking into town from the south, you walk toward the fjord, toward another mountain through the ubiquitous street lights – my arch nemesis the world ’round.
The tradition in town is to take off your shoes and hang up your coat when entering many public places, including the library, where I often work. Like kids everywhere, the after-school crowd rarely remembers the “hang up your coat” part. It makes me laugh every day.
