Edie's Garden

June 26, 2014 Grace Luddy

This is a young rose near Edie's split rail fence on the south edge of her garden.  She has carefully paired it with lavender. — This is a young rose near Edie's split rail fence on the south edge of her garden. She has carefully paired it with lavender.

I had just come back to the Island and Edie invited me over to see her garden. I came the next morning. The sun had just come up and the dew was still on everything.

This is Edie's farmhouse. Edie has improved the insulation and the windows and the electricity, put on a new cedar roof. She’s restored the house with careful respect for the past. It’s a true old Block Island farmhouse and she’s kept it that way.

Edie loves her garden, but it’s not just flowers, it’s the memories … Edie's garden contains flowers that have been given by friends. She remembers each person and the name of each flower. There is a rose in memory of her mother and a beautiful young red maple tree in memory of her son, Peter. There is another rose planted by her grandmother. And yet another, the rose you see to the left of the door, is called "Seven Sisters". It was planted by her great-grandmother. This is a close-up of that rose.

Edie’s is one of the old Block Island families. It hasn't been easy to endure through years and generations on this island. I knew that… I have heard the stories. (I've been lucky enough to have heard Edie’s many wonderful stories through all the many years. I have heard of strength and skill and courage and constant, diligent attention. And hard, hard work. And love for the ocean and for the depth of beautiful, difficult lives.) But nothing brought it home to me as much as seeing her great-grandmother’s rose.

I think of Edie and her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmother tending that rose …keeping it going through wars and recessions, through illness and hardship. Edie’s great-grandmother planted this rose in this spot for her new home. That was in the 1850’s. Edie is 85 and she tends it still.

Here are some of the flowers in Edie's garden. And there are many, many more.

Here is a close-up of the pansies in the container to the right of the back door

Here is an especially good example of the morning dew.

Here is the rose as you come up the long driveway, to the left, just before Edie's son Christopher's house.  It's apricot when it first opens, and then it turns pink. — Here is the rose as you come up the long driveway, to the left, just before Edie's son Christopher's house. It's apricot when it first opens, and then it turns pink.

I love this peony, perfect and new, in the very first seconds of new morning light.

I have always thought of flowers as symbols of ephemeral beauty, but until hearing about Edie's great-grandmother, I never thought of their endurance. Some of these flowers will likely outlive us all.

Here is a picture of one of Edie's sheds:

I thought you might like to look closer and notice the little white stones.

Edie's mother was born in Sicily. She transplanted herself here to the island where she turned herself into a Yankee, a hardworking Block Island fisherman's, farmer's wife.

Edie's mother picked up a child's sand pail and filled it with only white stones when she went to the ocean. She lined the wooden walk Edie's father installed from a piece of dock wreckage found on the east beach.

There isn't one little thing in this whole garden that doesn't matter to Edie, that isn't done on purpose. She knows every plant and every story. She does exactly what each plant needs exactly when it needs it. She does it every day. This is what Edie really does in her garden: She tends and keeps and considers and loves and remembers. This is what makes her such a good friend.

I know when Edie needs to rest her mind she goes out into her garden… she loves her roses the way I love my pictures.

She just got a camera… and she already knows how to use it. She's begun to take pictures of her garden. There’s no telling what she’ll do next.

PS. Edie called to especially remind me to thank Lexi Dewey and Marybeth Jarrosak for their diligent labors in her garden. They have helped her, always, even in Marybeth's case, coming from Colorado, just when she's needed it the most.

Back in Moosup

June 15, 2014 Grace Luddy

Here are last year's milkweed pods with the new grasses of early summer.

I’ve been in my home town in Moosup, Connecticut all week. (Sorry to tell you if you were hoping for a bit of Block Island. I’ll be back in time for next week’s post.) In any case, I also drove to New Jersey to visit some friends. We had good company and an exceptional lamb dinner. Plus, after knowing them on Block Island for almost 15 years, I finally got to see their house. They are art dealers and in addition to many, many pictures of their much-loved family, their house is full of the most spectacular art.

I learned a lot. For example, there is much to be said for a big picture. I mean, BIG, the size of a wall. And there is such a thing as a perfect color. And the really good artists… and my friends know how to find them… have their own language and you can feel it even though any you might find it difficult to put into words. And those paintings can speak so powerfully that you can drive all the way back from New Jersey and not be able to think of anything else.

I've been waiting to get a picture of a blue heron, wings outstretched and feet pointing down, and in full display of all her wonderful feathers, just before she lands.

I also went to see my niece and nephew’s graduation from kindergarten where one child was so overcome by the magnitude of the occasion that he burst into tears, and the next day went to see another nephew’s graduation from third grade, and then unfortunately yesterday, I went to a funeral.

And in between I went to the fish hatchery to take some pictures. So all of this has been mixed together all week… my friends and their art and the very young children and their brand new lives and the unexpected, untimely death of my cousin.

I thought about all of this and then I went out and took pictures and I thought about how it is when a person goes out to try to know or feel or express something about the depths of this life and this world.

These ducks for some reason, did not fly away when the dogs and I came closer than they liked.  They just threw out a big commotion as they powered themselves around the corner. — These ducks for some reason, did not fly away when the dogs and I came closer than they liked. They just threw out a big commotion as they powered themselves around the corner.

I noticed this guy first after investigating when I heard something plopping into the water.

All of it... the example of really fine art and people who have made it their passion, the wonderful, deeply felt lives of children, and the fact of my cousin's death... it all affected my photography. I want to spend more time and go as honestly as I can.

I didn't expect to see these turtles. In fact, as many times as I've been to the hatchery, I've never seen them before. So here is some new information for me about more creatures and their self-referencing lives....about their complete, self-contained experience...about the way that life expresses itself among them.

There is all this thrum and energy and every time I see something new or something expected and still so beautiful...I just feel it is worth the closest attention I can muster.

(PS. Happy Father's Day, especially to my step-son Kevin on his first Father's Day and to Bill who is far away, having just arrived in Southeast Asia.)

It took me a minute to realize that all these little dark spots in the water were turtles.  There were many, many more, even, than what I'm showing you in this picture. — It took me a minute to realize that all these little dark spots in the water were turtles. There were many, many more, even, than what I'm showing you in this picture.

I've been watching this nest whenever I come to Moosup, because I thought it might be an eagle's next.  But it's for osprey.  Here is one osprey, dropping a fish into the nest.  It's way up on a pole for high tension wires. — I've been watching this nest whenever I come to Moosup, because I thought it might be an eagle's next. But it's for osprey. Here is one osprey, dropping a fish into the nest. It's way up on a pole for high tension wires.

This is how the osprey feels about us coming this close to the nest.

Here is a field at the fish hatchery.  The river is just beyond those trees.  I can imagine it as a complete world for someone. — Here is a field at the fish hatchery. The river is just beyond those trees. I can imagine it as a complete world for someone.

And here are some young geese, in the "kindergarten" of their lives.  I wonder if the world looks as new to them as it did to us. — And here are some young geese, in the "kindergarten" of their lives. I wonder if the world looks as new to them as it did to us.

And another old milkweed pod, still standing after a hard winter.

Two Evenings

June 8, 2014 Grace Luddy

I took these pictures with just the normal lens on my camera.  Too bad I didn't have my close up lens, but that was locked in the car. — I took these pictures with just the normal lens on my camera. Too bad I didn't have my close up lens, but that was locked in the car.

It rained all day on Thursday and it started to clear toward sunset, which is the best possible thing because then you get light bursting through in moments when everything is still so nice and fresh.

The dogs and I went out for a walk, which turned out to be longer than expected because I stopped at Southeast Light and Wilson took off to make friends with some people in the road. I tore after him, locking my keys in the car in the process. And so we walked home.

It wasn't far and we cut through our extremely kind neighbor’s yard and saw the grasses, all wet and sparkling. And then I saw this wild iris. And this blackberry flower.

And all of this was very good until the sun dropped below heavy, low hanging clouds with just about the most amazing light I’ve seen. It cut through with precision, making deep dusky places and brightly lit places and the sharpest distinctions between them.

This is our neighbor's house and that light.

And then the sun went down, bright under all those grey clouds.

This is from the next night, at the Hodge Property.

The next night I went out with the dogs to the Hodge Property, again at sunset. (We had been moving out all day, which was work, made much nicer by the fact that Bill is here this year, so could we pass each other every so often while carrying our respective boxes and we could both roll our eyes and make little remarks. I found this to be quite companionable.)

It was cool and clear and the light was wonderful. I took a picture of one of my favorite trees. When the unobstructed wind comes down from the north the first thing it hits is this little tree. That’s why I like it. I’ve taken its picture about a million times.

The other thing I want to tell you and I hope you can feel it, is that while the sun was setting, while the colors were deepening and everything fell into silhouettes, and while I got these pictures, other things were happening. The wind was softly blowing. There were many birds… all kinds…gulls and sparrows and egrets and all of them were calling or singing. I could hear the waves from many directions. And also because the beach roses are newly blooming and the shad is blooming, the wind smelled like roses. There was a sweet, beautiful young couple, walking hand in hand, and meeting Wilson and Molly, and talking and laughing. Anyone could fall in love on this night.

So that was last night. I knew we’d be moving out today, and leaving the island for a week or so. On such a night, that seemed like a pretty long time.

We’re out of the house now, because except for one week, the house rented for the rest of the summer. We had that expected fire drill of a morning. Without Gabby and Aldo and Janelle, who came and worked very hard today to help us, I’d still be there right now, cleaning and having a nervous breakdown. But we all worked together and then we were done and Bill and I got to rest. And do you know what Gabby and Aldo and Janelle are doing? They went on to other jobs. This is what people do on the island in the summer. They work so hard. They work without stopping.

Obviously, it is time to declare a Sabbath, then Bill and I will get the boat ready to bring it back to the island, which is where we will live. In the morning we’ll also unpack the cars. We'll see family and friends and I've got some photography projects planned and then I'll go back to the island (and so will Bill after a business trip) and then we'll have our summer lives. I won't say our summers are simple because they're not. But there will be many fewer boxes, and I'll be able to clean our whole space in about ten minutes and we'll mostly live in the open air and that is the best thing about it.

As the sun set the water turned that luminous blue.  This is North Light and off on the horizon is the mainland. — As the sun set the water turned that luminous blue. This is North Light and off on the horizon is the mainland.

Little Things

May 31, 2014 Grace Luddy

Rodman’s Hollow was formed 22,000 years ago when melt water from the last glacier came through. The deep hollow itself was likely formed by a giant ice chunk so big, it cut through layers of sedimentary clay, exposing a layer of sand below. (That allowed the water to drain away and is why Rodman's Hollow is a deep, cup-shaped valley rather than a deep, cup-shaped pond.)

I went there a few evenings ago. I was tired. You already know this because I’ve been going on and on in every post about how we are moving out of our house at the end of this week.

I went down into the Hollow. The sky was soft. The light was soft. The air was soft and down I went and I was the only person and the paths wound around and down over stones and branches, turning but always down. And I began to look for pictures. First I saw green leaves. The new leaves above looked like they were coming out in order to fly away.

And then I saw the shad buds opening…

This is shad.  Very famous on Block Island.  It fills Rodman's Hollow.  In a little while there will be so much shad in bloom that the Hollow will look like it's covered in snow. — This is shad. Very famous on Block Island. It fills Rodman's Hollow. In a little while there will be so much shad in bloom that the Hollow will look like it's covered in snow.

There were layers of green… tangles leading to thickets, all in different early stages of blooming.

These vines are dry remnants from last year’s growth, draping or falling down like hair or like a waterfall.

Here in the Hollow, I felt like a creature in my own place. And my mind left that other world of cleaning and closets and cupboards and lists of things to do. I didn’t hurry in this place. I didn’t have to organize anything. I only had the chance to notice the order that was already there.

And of course I had Wilson and Molly with me.  Here is Molly being a good girl and coming when she is called. — And of course I had Wilson and Molly with me. Here is Molly being a good girl and coming when she is called.

I can’t tell you how much I liked this…how happy it made me, how it softly soothed and harmonized the frayed ends of my mind. I just looked for light and focus and the path brought me deeper and deeper down.

Here is Wilson, thinking about it.  I wanted you to see the layers and layers of green in the Hollow. — Here is Wilson, thinking about it. I wanted you to see the layers and layers of green in the Hollow.

There are many dramatic places on Block Island…big places to see long vistas and the ocean crashing and sparkling. But sometimes it’s good to go where small things are happening, small leaves and blossoms in their millions and millions, coming out quietly and (almost) unnoticed in the perfection of their new green beauty.

A stand of wind-shaped trees in the Hollow.

Time Study

May 24, 2014 Grace Luddy

I've continued to be very busy.  The Gallery opened yesterday.  And I've sort of hit a wall.  I've declared tomorrow an official Sabbath.... (these come on me suddenly in my tradition...  when I can't do one more thing... when I… — I've continued to be very busy. The Gallery opened yesterday. And I've sort of hit a wall. I've declared tomorrow an official Sabbath.... (these come on me suddenly in my tradition... when I can't do one more thing... when I feel I'm a danger to myself and others... when I can no longer finish a thought and when I bump into door posts as I did yesterday at the Gallery, I declare a day of rest). So. No Gallery... no getting the house ready for rental... no big photo projects... no emails... no web browsing. I need this rest. I really, really do.
But I didn't want to let any more time go by before giving you a weekly posting. So here I am on my Sabbath-eve and I'm looking through my photos for something to show you. If I could pick one or two things from all the pictures, something simple and brief and nice, what would it be? So I decided on these pictures.
These are pictures I took with a tripod. I took them as the light was fading and also later, in real darkness. I made the exposure long enough to collect the light that was there. It collected light I couldn't even see.
These time exposures play with my head a little bit around the whole question of time. The picture above was taken in late dusk. The shutter speed was 8/10ths of a second. You can see the wave starting to get blurry around the edges. The picture below was taken about a half an hour later. That was in real darkness. (It's amazing when doing this kind of photography, what a difference a few minutes can make. It changes second by second.)
The shutter speed for this picture was 25 seconds. Way longer. And look what happened to the waves. In the first picture you can still discern the form of the wave, but not in the second picture. Waves came in and out again and again, each leaving a trace on the sensor, but nothing defined. All the waves accumulated into the ghostly, smoky, richly colored nothing you see in this picture. And of course the stones were there the whole time, substantial and solid, with nothing to do and all the time in the world.
I like this a lot without having too good of a reason... the idea that perception of the passage of time might be optional... that we might experience time at a certain pace and that another creature... say a bacteria or even a little insect that only lives for a day might feel like she has lots and lots of time. Maybe there are creatures who know time and see the world the way the camera captured the waves in this picture.
I'm not a very good rester. I'm sure my mind will conjure some emergency or some new hobby such as learning a foreign language to try to get me back into my comfort zone of zooming around. I've done this before, declared a Sabbath and decided to start it after finishing just one more thing. So then a Sabbath turns into a half an hour sitting on the beach just before making dinner. But I really need this time and I'm determined. And the tourists who have suddenly arrived and are already walking in the middle of the road will be much safer if I get some rest. So this is a public service. I've already decided and now I'm telling you. I might live on a different time scale tomorrow with nothing to think of, nothing to solve, nothing to start or finish, and plenty of time. If that's too difficult I'll watch my favorite movie. Apollo 13 or possibly Star Trek into Darkness.
The sun is setting in a few minutes. There is a cap of clouds over the island. The sky is clear at the east horizon, and the sky is light pink or melon... similar to the color on the water in the picture above. The ocean is turning into deeper and deeper blue. It's beginning to get that wonderful indigo color. It is soft in the west... nothing fancy. Sometimes the softest colors are beautiful too... just shade of grey, with faint touches of pink and traces where it's glowing in the color of pearls. Oh, but now the sun has dropped under the clouds and it's like a burning coal on the horizon, and it's beginning to bring fire underneath, and now that's spreading. Maybe it will light the whole sky like it does sometimes, but now I don't think so... it's darkening, deepening, more purple now. It's going.
Maybe in a world that's made like this I don't have to do everything all the time. Maybe the world will turn without my opinions or directions. Sabbath is starting now.

Elva's Trees

May 14, 2014 Grace Luddy

A great old tree in Halifax, Nova Scotia, taken in August last summer.  Abundant and green in the full glory of summer.  Something to look forward to. — A great old tree in Halifax, Nova Scotia, taken in August last summer. Abundant and green in the full glory of summer. Something to look forward to.

Elva stopped me in the Block Island Grocery (the BIG) this past winter to tell me how much she likes my blog and how she particularly loves it when I include pictures of trees. I decided right then that I’d do a blog about trees for her and I've been waiting for a good time, which is now.

This picture was taken last November.  Oakland Forest is an old growth forest of American Beech Trees in Middletown, RI.   I went to visit when my brother Nick and I went to Newport for this 60th birthday. The forest was purchased and… — This picture was taken last November. Oakland Forest is an old growth forest of American Beech Trees in Middletown, RI. I went to visit when my brother Nick and I went to Newport for this 60th birthday. The forest was purchased and preserved in 2000. It's small and kind of scrubbly actually, but it's the only old growth forest in Rhode Island. People worked very hard to save it. Some of the trees are 300 years old.

Elva likes things to show their age. She thinks the true beauty is in the wrinkles on a woman's face. She likes it that tree bark grows deeper and richer with years. She likes things to be what they are...weather worn and unadorned and complicated and enduring… more than enduring… bursting with life through all the many twists and turns. I agree with Elva, especially about trees, and as I am certainly getting older, it is good to more fully embrace her definition of personal beauty.

My life is still busy like it was last week. And company is coming… a good friend I’ve known for almost 30 years. And she's bringing her friend.

I plan to rest when my friends come. Or more accurately, lapse into a coma. I can rest into this friendship. I can always zoom around again on Monday.

Here's a little contrast for you, taken on the same trip to Newport.  I believe that people actually have to shape these trees by hand.  They have to climb up there and cut them.  (Don't ask me how they keep track of what they are doi… — Here's a little contrast for you, taken on the same trip to Newport. I believe that people actually have to shape these trees by hand. They have to climb up there and cut them. (Don't ask me how they keep track of what they are doing. I don't think I could do that.) That turns them into story-book trees.

It’s been good to go back and pick out tree pictures from the many that I’ve been saving for Elva. It’s good to see the light coming through leaves and to see the wonderful forms that trees are so good at making. I like to see that the myriad details have taken care of themselves. I've been working on these pictures all morning and the longer I look at them, the better I feel. My mind is slowly unwinding from its over-compressed condition.

A tree on my sister Amy and brother-in-law Stan's farm.  I don't think anyone has been up there, trimming this tree.  It definitely shows the marks of a long life.  I think if it goes much longer it may turn itself into stone. — A tree on my sister Amy and brother-in-law Stan's farm. I don't think anyone has been up there, trimming this tree. It definitely shows the marks of a long life. I think if it goes much longer it may turn itself into stone.

This tree came down a big storm in 2011.  I love the red wood grain and the cobalt blue interior. — This tree came down a big storm in 2011. I love the red wood grain and the cobalt blue interior.

I’ve got so many more trees to go and see. They’re beginning to bloom right now and that’s a nice thing… to know there are more pictures out there waiting. Next week… while it’s still spring and things are still budding, I will make the rounds and visit all my known good trees on Block Island. I can make time for that. I will.

A really nice thing… a wonderful thing about living on Block Island is that someone will stop me in the store and tell me they like my pictures. And then they’ll tell me what they see and love about the world in their particular way. And then I’ll think of them when I’m out taking pictures. And then I’ll feel like I'm part of this community and that we love the same things together.

PS. My friends called. For some reason they would prefer not to drive seven hours from Delaware to Point Judith and then take a bumpy ferry ride to sit on Block island in the rain that is prophesied for this weekend. I will have to lapse into a coma by myself, but I'm sure I can squeeze in a few pictures.

Tree growing in the marshes of the James River, near Williamsburg, VA.  Taken a few years ago when I was visiting my brother George and his family.   Very big and stately and Virginian. — Tree growing in the marshes of the James River, near Williamsburg, VA. Taken a few years ago when I was visiting my brother George and his family. Very big and stately and Virginian.

Energy Management

May 9, 2014 Grace Luddy

Water falling in Savoy, Mass, near Lisa and Bill's cabin.

I am busy right now. We move out of the house for summer rental on June 8th. Because it’s a maritime environment, every wall, ceiling, and floor is washed, and all the bedding and slipcovers, and then both offices are converted to bedrooms, everything of ours in the kitchen, and in bureaus and cabinets is squashed into lock out closets. All the stuff that in my impeccable system of housekeeping has been piled in corners and left to breed and multiply through the winter has to be decompiled and dealt with. There is an electrician coming today and we’re standing by for the itinerant appliance repair person who comes from the mainland and whose time is more difficult to get than let’s say, the Pope's.

In addition to that, this is the narrow window of time for many much loved people to come and see us. There were four people here last weekend. There are six people here right now. There are more coming the day these folks leave, and then two more and those may overlap with two more, in which case our neighbor will kindly allow us to house the overflow, and then there will be four more people over Memorial Day weekend and then we have two weeks until we move out.

Not much effort.  A lot of force and power. — Not much effort. A lot of force and power.

Oh yes, and then all my pictures have to be planned and made and matted and framed at least for the beginning of the summer art season. The Gallery opens on the 23rd of May and the building has to be finished (Becca, Eileen and I have been painting, and Jerry has been doing construction) and there are innumerable meetings and many, many details.

How am I going to get this done?

My Dad’s father used to make his own shoes and tools. He worked pressing clothes during the day and worked on his farm in the evening. There was economic necessity but there was also an ideological component. There was something morally wrong in not doing everything yourself, unless you had children, and in that case it was definitely wrong if they were not doing everything with you.) My father used to take copper, coat it with two-part epoxy and wrap it with electrical tape. (My father loved two-part epoxy. Everything in our childhood seemed to involve two-part epoxy. Or duct tape, preferably smuggled out of work.) That is how he made his own wire for the boat and I remember holding it for him by the hour so he could wrap it. This, instead of going to the hardware store and buying some. We were not “parasites” - lazy, privileged people who didn’t even know how to make our own wire. We were self-sufficient people living in America, a free and democratic country where everyone was equal. (The boat would be ready in August or possibly September.)

So I tried to do everything myself, with a certain righteous strain, as if my personal worth or even my right to be on the planet could be measured by how overworked I was. But over the years I have learned that it feels so much better and we actually do a much better job when we ask for help. So Gabby (God bless her and keep her) and her folks (ditto) have been cleaning, and Nick (ditto) has been working in the yard, and Becca (ditto) is going to help me paint, and Larry (ditto) is coming to do some construction and Bob, another photography friend, is helping with broken screens and wobbly furniture, simply out of the greatness of his heart (ditto, ditto). As a result, we are in better shape right now than we have often been three days before we move. So I have help. I have plenty of help. What a concept.

This has left me with time, I wouldn’t say with an abundance of time but with enough time to work on my pictures. This has also changed through the years. Going out and about with a camera around my neck is part of my life now. It’s just what I do. The side effect of doing this is pictures. So now, there are so many pictures and I have to choose. And once I choose I have to make them up. There are papers and inks and the size and shape of each picture, and matching mats and frames and glass or plexi. Controlling all that is a little like doing taxes. It’s easy to get lost in the weeds. So I am taking the time to develop a master plan.

In winter, on Great Salt Pond, it's a little less busy than it's about to get immediately.

Among other things in my former corporate life, I used to be responsible for “performance management” in my company. I used to think a lot about this… how to get a whole bunch of people marching quickly and efficiently in a planned and measured direction. I would go to conferences about this. I would run home and make up forms and manuals and training and incentive programs. I found the conferences a little upsetting. People were paid a lot of money to get all worked up about performance management concepts. I thought that there was too much about going faster and more cheaply and too little about what we were doing and why we were doing it. I remember one time coming home and saying that these systems would have been very useful to Adolf Hitler, that great performance manager.

(I happened to be in a doctor’s office and I picked up an article in Time magazine about suicide prevention. The article said it would be so much better if the people who were at the point of suicide could be reached closer to the beginning of the downward spiral, rather than waiting for them to make a call from the emergency phone on the bridge. They said it would be much more cost effective for the whole system if they could find a way to do that. I thought, “cost effective?” It just killed me how automatically that was written, how deeply that has been driven into our cultural water table. Upon reflection, I thought maybe this was social worker lingo… from people who were used to having to justify what they do to the people who pay for their programs. I know that game, sneaking human values into corporate language, but I imagine a world where the undisputed bottom line includes the value of being alive.)

I used to measure life, especially at this time of year, in terms of “Things to Do.” I would make a list and try to get through it as quickly as possible. But now, because of help, I have the pure luxury of stepping back a little.

And here we were in March a few years ago, everything about to burst out.

I’m thinking about the context in which I work: Where are my tools… what is my way of being organized? I’m thinking about my energy: Do I need to step back or rest for one minute right now… do I need to say “no” to something? What feels good about working? I’m thinking about my purpose. Why am I doing this? What is precious?

I’m older. I can’t blast myself out of a canon and do two weeks of work in two days. (Plus, that requires cramming a lot of stuff into my closets and my closets are already full of other stuff.) Plus, the things I want to do now require consistent effort and emerging, clarifying purpose over an extended period of time. So I need to keep working on context… tools and places and practices that will carry me along. And also, this is something… I used to work as if it was the product that mattered… not what it took out of me to make it. Now I matter more - my life matters more.

I used to go around with my hair on fire as if I was always in a life or death situation.  Well animals are in a life or death situation and they rest whenever they can.  (Great White Egret on Great Salt Pond.) — I used to go around with my hair on fire as if I was always in a life or death situation. Well animals are in a life or death situation and they rest whenever they can. (Great White Egret on Great Salt Pond.)

I want my pictures to fit together. When people come to see my part of the gallery, I want the whole thing…the wall, the bin, the book, the portfolio to give a coherent experience. There are the pictures for now and then I will have my show in the fall, and that will be a different experience. My niece Elizabeth is going to help me with the matting and framing (she is very good at this) and that will leave me time to do one thing that I never seem to get time to do, figure out how to market my book and if I’m going to do any advertising. I will. See, that’s the difference between having help and not having help. I will have time to do this. I’m often working right now, from five in the morning until ten o’clock at night. (I had to tell you. I’m still my father’s daughter.) But it’s fine. I came in from the studio the other night. Bill said, “How was the commute?” (I used to drive three hours a day.) I said, “Oh, it was terrible… you know, weeds in the path and everything.”

There is a Navajo saying. “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I am learning who can be trusted and I’m asking for advice and help. I am spending time on the context and process and purpose of working and I feel that my life matters as much as the output itself.

Yesterday I cleaned the house, prepared bedrooms, made dinner, took the dogs for a walk, wrote some stuff for the gallery, welcomed guests, took a few pictures, moved all my matting and framing materials, ordered more materials, paid bills, printed pictures, talked to a friend and photography client and to the electrician and the appliance repair person, and locked myself out of the car… and the funny thing is… I never felt like I was working. I basically felt like I was doing what I wanted to do. Why do I want to do this? For my life. For the lives of other people. I'm not alone. We're in this together.

It’s five o’clock in the morning right now. The sun will be coming up soon. It’s orange and red and purple across the north and east horizon. The water is glowing blue and silver through a tangle of newly budding trees and bushes. And I’m not getting up to take its picture. I’m enjoying it very much in any case. And Bill is up and making coffee. Coffee. Very nice.

Sooner or Later I was Going to Have to Write About Puppies

May 2, 2014 Grace Luddy

He was mildly interested in me, but far more interested in falling asleep, which he did about one second after this picture was taken.

I met Diane six years ago. I was looking for a B+B in Massachusetts that would allow me to bring Wilson. It was kind of random but I picked her place, The House in Pumpkin Hollow, in Conway, Mass. I was pleased to find a relaxed welcome in an old time country Victorian with the most interesting prints and books everywhere and beautiful large windows and jewel colored walls. I also found a congenial golden retriever friend for Wilson, and a wonderful friend for me. Diane has a PhD in Sociology from the New School in New York City and was an operations expert for the Mayor’s office for City of New York and the Director of Litigation Support for the NY DOT (That's about traffic tickets!) for ten years. It’s a pleasure to watch her intelligence and operational, organizational skills applied to making my breakfast. She does make the best biscuits on the planet, but of all her surpassing skills, the most surpassing of all is her ability to grow golden retrievers.

This puppy is blurry because she is still in the process of tumbling off of her mother's back.

Every so often you find a person who is built to do exactly what she is doing and this is true for Diane with her puppies. She’s got it down to a science, but the best thing is how she loves them. She’s just so happy to sit with each puppy and with all of them together. She does it by the hour. As a result, these are the roundest, calmest, most well-socialized puppies I’ve ever seen.

Brother Nick and I went up to visit her last week because I had to see her litter. There were only three puppies – an unusually small litter for goldens. They are five weeks old. They’ve all been sold and will be leaving in a few weeks. I have no doubt that by then they’ll be speaking English and possibly a second language. In any case, it was impossible for me to be unhappy while I watched them tumble around. I am quite pleased to show you her puppies.

PS. Diane will be raising another litter, probably, next spring.

PPS. Diane is an excellent writer and would welcome guests to sit by her fire and write. Diane is irreverent and warm and liberal and wise and articulate. She can be reached at: http://www.pumpkinhollowhouse.com/.

PPPS. My entire family prophesied that I would come back with one or two puppies. I did not come home with puppies.

This is one of the new puppies with River, his (or her?) half brother.

Because there are so few puppies, Jonesy often nurses standing up.  So we are able to see how happy they are about it. — Because there are so few puppies, Jonesy often nurses standing up. So we are able to see how happy they are about it.

Here is Jonesy with one of the new puppies.

This is just to prove I haven't gone completely Hallmark.  This is a little cheesecake shot of Jonesy when she came to visit Block Island as a puppy.  Jonesy said it was alright to go with this picture... it is integral to the story after … — This is just to prove I haven't gone completely Hallmark. This is a little cheesecake shot of Jonesy when she came to visit Block Island as a puppy. Jonesy said it was alright to go with this picture... it is integral to the story after all. The dog on the right is Molly at about one year old.

This is from a prior and obviously much larger litter.  Different mom.  Molly is one of these puppies.  Maybe the second, lighter one?  (As an aside, Diane and her friend painted this cool pattern on her kitchen floor.) — This is from a prior and obviously much larger litter. Different mom. Molly is one of these puppies. Maybe the second, lighter one? (As an aside, Diane and her friend painted this cool pattern on her kitchen floor.)

This is Jonesy as a puppy, Molly at one year old, and Molly's brother Barkley.  All at our house on Block Island. — This is Jonesy as a puppy, Molly at one year old, and Molly's brother Barkley. All at our house on Block Island.

Not Working too Hard on Easter and Taking Pictures of Birds

April 25, 2014 Grace Luddy

When I was a kid, we had many relatives over for Easter. We would cook for the holiday as if we would not be eating again until summer. Dad would smoke a large turkey in a contraption he had made. He would track the whole process year after year, in fifteen-minute increments, in his perfect handwriting, on yellow graph paper. We would make 10 pounds of potato salad; 20 loaves of Easter bread. The table would be set with the Noritake china, which made a nice complement to our other method of food presentation, which was to lay everything out on little yellow Styrofoam trays. (We had a thousand of these trays. Dad got them at a discount. We used them for everything from food to bolts and screws and boat parts. We still have some of them around my Mom's house, I think.) We covered the trays with clear sheets of Teflon film that Dad smuggled from work. The film was intended for use, and I have no idea how, in the manufacture of helicopters, but we used it for years in place of tinfoil and saran wrap.) And for some reason, we would suddenly decide to complete a big project on the morning of that very day. Once for example, we laid linoleum in the kitchen, with the skilled and efficient labor of the six of us young children.

So to be out taking pictures on Easter morning with the table set and the cooking done. Well… it was a wonderful thing.

I was out at the hatchery at first light. Malcolm Greenaway had given me a book on bird photography, and I was trying a new technique. I had always assumed that to track a bird in flight I had to set the camera so it could automatically adjust to changes as the bird flew against a blue sky or against the trees or the grass or the water. But no, his book said to be completely manual… to set everything for the bird and for the bird alone. That way the background could be over or underexposed. Whatever. But the bird would be fine. It was all about the bird.

This is the kind of shot, against a bright blue sky, that can easily create a very dark bird.  The manual exposure gave much more detail. — This is the kind of shot, against a bright blue sky, that can easily create a very dark bird. The manual exposure gave much more detail.

It was true again with this bird... There was at least some light from the side and the much less contrast, so I was able to get a very good rendition of the feathers on his back.I should also say I love the chaos of the twigs and branches around hi… — It was true again with this bird... There was at least some light from the side and the much less contrast, so I was able to get a very good rendition of the feathers on his back.
I should also say I love the chaos of the twigs and branches around him, the way they fall into messily perfect patterns, and the way they are just beginning to bud.

I had some trepidation, departing from my known procedures. I decided to try it and you know it did work. It worked very well. Something that I thought would be difficult was really quite fine.

And after many long months … the air was finally warm. It felt good and I could only imagine how good it felt to the birds. They now had energy to burn. They were pairing up… flirting… defining and defending territory.

Here is the mate for the tree swallow up above.  They were sitting nicely, one facing one way and one facing the other.  Then they flew off together. — Here is the mate for the tree swallow up above. They were sitting nicely, one facing one way and one facing the other. Then they flew off together.

Eagle defending his perch.  The eagle held its place, even though the osprey came several times. — Eagle defending his perch. The eagle held its place, even though the osprey came several times.

And then the eagle was perched on the high electrical pole. At first I thought the second bird was another eagle, but it was an osprey… and it started a fight. I had never seen this, ever.

It was all happening on this morning…rich and alive and warm and busy and budding or nesting or pregnant or newly born. And the camera was bringing me to it… allowing me to see it as if I was right in the middle of everything. I loved this. I was happy.

I was almost back to the car when I met a man with his two boys, four and five years old, on their way to a morning of holiday fishing. They carefully petted Wilson and Molly and I showed them my pictures of the eagle. They were at the age for questions: “Why do you have two dogs?” (I said, "Why are there two of you?" That got me a look.) Then, “Why is your camera so big?” “To take pictures from far away.”, I said. One child spread his arms. “Yes. It’s to take pictures of very big eagles from very far away.”, he said. And he brought his hands in. “And if you have a little camera you can take pictures of little birds from very close together.” I nodded. I said, “That makes sense.” He nodded also.

On the way home I spied what I thought were eleven hawks circling over what was once the Moosup Baptist Church, but has recently become Iglesia di Christo. When I saw them up close I realized they were turkey vultures. I thought this was a little apocalyptic for Easter but I got some good, if disquieting pictures.

I got home and everything was easy. (My sisters and my mother and my cousin and I had decided to keep it simple. We limited the menu. We actually agreed on this. So all we had was Russian Easter bread, other bread, crackers, cheese, home made gravlax, smoked salmon, trout and blue fish, with associated side dishes and garnishes, deviled eggs, an entire spiral ham, many links of fresh kielbasa, sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, potato salad, roasted peppers, marinated asparagus with rosemary, caramelized onions, kale, lobster pie, salad, blintzes, and fruit, and lemon ice, and an Easter egg hunt, unless I’m forgetting something.) But we only had to lay out the food we had made, finish the vegetables and gather the food as it came in the door with the other people.

I showed the vultures to my niece and nephews. The older boy, (He’ll be eight in May. He knows a lot.) explained that a vulture has no feathers on his head because would you want your feathers to get dirty if you had to eat what they eat? And the twins (They are six, and I should mention that they are no slouches either.) pointed out that even though they had not personally seen a snowy owl they knew someone who had. Their Auntie Grace.

So we had a nice Easter, made nicer because everyone did something and no one did too much and because the children were thrilled (and I mean as thrilled as I was with my pictures) because the Easter egg hunt included marshmallow peeps and because everyone was healthy and happy and clear-eyed and because we used paper plates, which is the answer for holidays.

I went out the next morning and realized that I didn’t want to go back to the hatchery after such a lucky day of pictures because I didn’t want to hope for more. So I went up route 14A to see if there were any hawks in the marsh. I was surprised by a line of trees at the edge of a field and the sun coming up through the fog.

Foggy at the hatchery.  The heron love to sit in these trees between the ponds. — Foggy at the hatchery. The heron love to sit in these trees between the ponds.

Then I realized that the hatchery would also be foggy over the ponds. I said, “That’s a completely different situation.”, and I hurried to the hatchery. It was much darker than the day before when I had been in sunshine. I pushed the ISO (the sensitivity of the camera) as much as I could to get a workable aperture and enough speed for the long telephoto. I got some pictures of heron.

This blue heron began to fly and then came back down, which is very unusual behavior.  Look at the second picture.  I wonder if his foot might have been stuck. — This blue heron began to fly and then came back down, which is very unusual behavior. Look at the second picture. I wonder if his foot might have been stuck.

Here is a closer look at the third picture in the series.  I love the beauty of these birds.  I also appreciate the fact that the second bird remained imperturbable throughout, and stayed that way after the other bird flew, and also stayed… — Here is a closer look at the third picture in the series. I love the beauty of these birds. I also appreciate the fact that the second bird remained imperturbable throughout, and stayed that way after the other bird flew, and also stayed after I left and went around the hatchery and came back to check on him. That's one calm bird.

If this heron had his foot stuck, it ruins my theory about the perfection of bird behavior, at least for this particular bird. It did however, allow me to take many pictures.

I made some very nice roasted vegetables this Easter, and my gravlax was good and the ham was good. But there is something rich that has come to my life through photography, and I think it might be feeding my family more than the food. It certainly feeds me.

I have told you all of this because my life used to be about cooking for people (and working in Human Resources but that's another story). I am so lucky now, at this time in my life, to have something that is so heart-driven, so much about the depth and energy of life.

I never knew when I started what would be possible for me with photography. I was afraid to take the camera out of the box, for fear that I would break it. Every technical thing seemed like something that I would never be able to do. But now I do all the technical things and it's fine. I still do many other things, but the photography gives me ground for all of them. And I've developed a way of knowing what is beautiful and trusting what I see. And I see things that only I can see in my particular way of being. And I'm sure this is true for each person.

PS. You might be afraid of using manual settings on your camera. (Check out the technical info section.) But you get control in certain situations and you become a student of light. I find this a worthy aspiration. For example, I was taking my pictures and everything was fine. And then I walked for about three minutes. The sun was coming up just a little bit and the fog was burning off just a little bit. My eyes adjusted and I didn’t realize how things had changed. I overexposed some pictures. That taught me to know the light was changing even though I couldn’t see it. Now I pay closer attention to what happens with light, whether I am taking pictures or not.

PPS. I am back on the island since last night. I’ve driven out by the water. I have a slight head cold but I’m sitting in the car so the dogs can have an outing while I’m writing this post. I’m looking across Great Salt Pond to the Coast Guard Station and it’s warm enough and very windy. The water is sparkling. I am a lucky person.

PPPS. Bill just got on a plane in Bangkok. I put my emotional radar on when he’s on his way home. I like to think of him getting closer and closer, as if I had been holding my breath and I’m starting to let it out, or as if there had been something out of place and it’s rectifying by the minute. The next time he calls he’ll be in Chicago, and the next time he’ll be in Providence and the next day he’ll be home.

Here is another blue heron, taken the second day, just as the fog was starting to burn off.  The background is a little overexposed, but the heron is good.  It is especially good to see the detail on the part of the wing that's in shadow.&… — Here is another blue heron, taken the second day, just as the fog was starting to burn off. The background is a little overexposed, but the heron is good. It is especially good to see the detail on the part of the wing that's in shadow.

The Block Island Poetry Project

April 17, 2014 Grace Luddy

The people at the Poetry Project saw my book and asked to see the pictures bigger.  Here is one of the pictures from the book, called "Cathy's Wave".  It's named for my sister. — The people at the Poetry Project saw my book and asked to see the pictures bigger. Here is one of the pictures from the book, called "Cathy's Wave". It's named for my sister.

I taught at the Block Island Poetry Project last weekend and then I went right home and finished our taxes. So I got to have one big experience juxtaposed with another. I had tried to psych myself into doing taxes and not indulge in whining about them. I tried to say, “Isn’t it nice to be alive while working with taxes - to spend time in this knowable, orderly world? But we have four different businesses plus our own taxes, and some (all) of my filing systems looked like the back of my closet. So all of that had to be carefully organized with much ADHD and gnashing of teeth.

Now the taxes are done and I think it is best to forget them as soon as possible. I want to focus instead on telling you about the Poetry Project. I led a session called “Photography and a Creative Life”.

This is another picture from the book, called "Amy's Wave".  It's for another sister.  The only sister left without a wave is Mary, and she's out in Colorado.  Perhaps she can visit and we'll find a wave together, or if I go there it … — This is another picture from the book, called "Amy's Wave". It's for another sister. The only sister left without a wave is Mary, and she's out in Colorado. Perhaps she can visit and we'll find a wave together, or if I go there it might have to be a mountain: "Mary's Mountain." That would be fine.

I asked people to tell me what was important to them, how they wanted to express their creative instincts. One woman talked about beauty and where it can be found. She opened this line of inquiry: “Do we have to be in a place like Block Island to live our lives in beauty, or can we find it anywhere?” Another spoke of writing as craft. She said so many people dash words onto a page because there is a kind of truth that comes from blurting things out. But she wants to find the exact center, and so she works hard on her writing. She lets it refine and emerge, and she discovers both words and a deeper understanding. A man said he used to be afraid to expose himself, but when his father died, he was no longer willing to wait. He wants to be as authentic as possible and to experience that from others. A woman came with her beautiful young daughter. This child paid much closer attention than I would have expected, and when she was tired, she leaned into her mother and played with her mother’s long hair. One man was a little bit quiet in the workshop and like so many quiet people has so much to say. When we were out taking pictures, he used my long telephoto lens and got a good picture of swans bursting unexpectedly into flight. Happiness.

This picture is called "Back Splash."  It's also in the book. — This picture is called "Back Splash." It's also in the book.

Each person generously spoke about his or her own life and aspirations. Each person’s world and work and way of being was different, and each person’s story was so big.

The mother said, “I thought we were going to talk about photography, and we are, but this is about so much more than photography!” I found myself saying, “Photography is about so much more than photography.”

On the last night, Coleman Barks (a poet), David Darling (a cellist), John de Kadt (a drummer) and Zuleikha (a story-telling dancer) performed some poems adapted from Rumi. I have known these poems for years but I never saw them dancing. Zuleikha could swing her hips and I could see a cow. She could raise her shoulders and I could see a parrot. (That cow, for example, would eat grass all day and worry about it all night. It forgot that the grass would grow again and would always be there in the morning.) I have also worried that I would run out of things to say. But now, I will remember that woman’s bottom swaying while she happily, busily, munched the new grass, and I will laugh and believe that life will continue to grow for me also.

I was convinced again about the special power of seeing. It helps me know things more deeply and use what I learn in my life. It can show things before words come in to make up philosophies and arguments. No one has ever looked at my pictures and said, “But that’s against my religion.” I like that very much.

I want to spend time on this, to explore the ways that pictures show what words can’t say, and the ways that pictures and words can work together to tell a better story.

This is a puzzle I've been working on all week.  I took the color out because I wanted the gulls to blend into the ocean.  I'm not really satisfied yet.  I want to convey  a feeling about birds and waves coming from the same wind… — This is a puzzle I've been working on all week. I took the color out because I wanted the gulls to blend into the ocean. I'm not really satisfied yet. I want to convey a feeling about birds and waves coming from the same wind. I want them to look like each other, or to look like they derive from each other, or derive together from the same source.
There are many ways to know about this picture. One is to count the birds for tax purposes. There are 18 birds, and X% of that is what? This is just what I need. Another is to write a story about them. Another is to evaluate... it's a little light, the contrast could be greater but then you'd see the birds more clearly and do you want that or not? The wave coming through is "effective" or else it's "distracting." Another way is to know by seeing and just be with it and not put anything else on top of it. That way you can have your experience and I can have mine. It can do what is needed in both of our lives, and both can be true.

PS. I am going to work to make an eBook out of the content from the workshop. I’ve never done that before and I’m sure I’ll be telling you about it.

PPS. This picture is called, “I Want That.” One seagull is attempting to take a fish from the other. I think it is appropriate for taxes.

Lucky

April 10, 2014 Grace Luddy

I went out to take pictures on the west side of the island. The colors were rich and beautiful…more beautiful because with all the dull skies we've been having, I had almost forgotten what evening light could be.

The next day, April 9, was the seventh anniversary of my father’s death, so of course he was on my mind. I remembered how he loved it here and how we loved taking pictures together. I felt grateful and lucky to have had so much time together in such a beautiful place.

I went out in the morning and it was beautiful again. Mornings like this normally make me happy but this time I felt more than raw, more than vulnerable, more like kind of pulverized. I wanted my father to be here.

So I lived with those feelings for the day. It wasn't the best day to have to finish our taxes, but I got them done, well... basically done. Done enough to tidy them up a bit after the Poetry Project this weekend.

I will try to say how it is for me. When my father died, there was a gathering of forces. There were so many changes inside of me. Deep, deep rearrangements. What had been external to me - things that I had known about my father - were now inside of me. There is loneliness in losing my father and sometimes I miss him so much, especially when I'm taking pictures, but there is also a sense of wholeness, and also some strength or courage, maybe. My life, that started with my mother and him, and is grounded in them, is taking its own direction.

My father was at his best in nature. He took delight in every little thing that happened, every little thing he found. When a wave was splashing or falling, he wanted to open his mouth and taste it. I feel all of that, alive and well inside of me, and growing. And his eyes were exactly the color of the ocean. And those are my eyes also.

PS. My friend Karen Capuciati and her sister Kim have a wonderful blog called, "In Care of Dad." It's about caring for loved ones in the face of serious illness. They have published an excerpt from my blog in their post this week. Their blog is a wonderful resource. You can find it at incareofdad.com or here.

PPS. I like this picture. I took it the same night as the first ones but it was too big to fit up at the top of this post. I didn't want to leave it out so I'm putting it here. I also want to mention that the evening pictures are from the same place as the pictures for the blog post, "Wilson and Molly and the Wind". That was back in January. What a difference kinder weather can make.

The wind had blown the fog into vertical streams that caught the setting sun.

Nantucket

April 3, 2014 Grace Luddy

As you know, it has been a long winter. So I thought I would try a little change. I mean, something really different…like going off to see a small island off the coast of southern New England.

It all seemed very familiar… planning and organizing ferry schedules, a long ocean ride....until I saw the harbor. Nantucket Harbor is the site of the largest whaling fleet in history… its hay day was in the early 1800’s… so it’s like stepping back in time…walking down narrow, winding cobble streets and alleys…looking at fine old colonial houses, each with a widow’s walk. The people at the restaurants told us how you have to be so sturdy and everything because there are only 15 restaurants open on the island at this time of year. So Mimi and I got to act like we had just come back from the wilds of Alaska and explain how it is on Block Island.

In any case, I was only there for two nights. We had an excellent time, with wonderful, long-time friendship and good food. It rained most of the time, but we did get out to take pictures. We saw a white egret.

When I came home and told Malcolm Greenaway about the egret, he said, "Then why aren't they here on Block Island?  I said, "Maybe they are on their way."  And it was just as I prophesied.  I saw one arriving last night. — When I came home and told Malcolm Greenaway about the egret, he said, "Then why aren't they here on Block Island? I said, "Maybe they are on their way." And it was just as I prophesied. I saw one arriving last night.

We also took many pictures of the Nantucket Shoals. I have heard about these waters all my life, in every maritime weather report. The shoals are a series of shifting sandbars, in waters sometimes as shallow as 3 feet. They stretch out to the south and east of the island. Waves “feel the bottom”, peak up and crash when they encounter the shoals. Ships driven through the shoals because of wind or errors in navigation are almost certainly lost.

See how the sand darkens the water and how close the waves are breaking to the shore?

It was something to stand there in wind that was only 25 knots and coming from the other direction, looking at water that was so dark with churning sand. I’ve only seen it like that on Block Island in a hurricane.

When I left the island, it was a little bumpy for the first half hour of the two-hour ride, and I got to listen to the familiar sound of a steel hull slamming against the water. But the wind was from the north, and the seas continued to calm as we got closer to the mainland. I was content to lie down and eves drop while Nantucket islanders talked about things that reminded me very much of ferry conversations on the way from Block Island… there was talk of getting ready for the summer and of someone getting all bent out of shape about something…and people talked about where they were going and what they would buy on the mainland and when they were coming back.

Back home.  See the deer? — Back home. See the deer?

It was snowing (!) when I got back to the mainland and the huge ferry terminal. I drove to Moosup. Went to the fish hatchery, of course. Got some pictures of blue heron, of course. And then I came home to Block Island.

The dogs were hysterically happy to see me and I was equally happy to see them. I took them out to take pictures that night and then again yesterday morning. Then they waited in the car all day, in case I tried to make another escape. We went out again last night. The weather has changed at last. There were moments of blue sky and good light and we went to many familiar places. I realized how much I love it here. All the years and the emptiness in winter and the freedom of movement and the thousands of walks and pictures have given me a sense of place. It’s like even more than our house, our physical building, which is rented out in the summer, the island itself is home. I know how the waves are likely to be under given conditions, at different parts of the island. I call the people by name and they call me. I have an idea where I might find ducks and deer and piping plovers and possibly now, even owls. I’ve now been lucky enough to go to Nantucket but luckier still because I am so happy to come home. I would love to go again when I have more time, and I'd also like to see Martha's Vineyard. But right now I have egrets to find on Block Island and I need to say goodbye to the snowy owls, and actually I have to get down to the ferry because our son and his wife and new baby will be here in about 15 minutes. I promised to go out on the breakwater and take the baby's first Block Island picture as the boat comes into the harbor.

A fortuitous welcome from a snowy owl.  I happened to find him, the first morning home. — A fortuitous welcome from a snowy owl. I happened to find him, the first morning home.

PS. I want you to see the difference light makes in a photograph. This is the same egret I took up above, except in afternoon, overcast light. The three pictures were taken almost at sunrise. The sky was overcast then also, but the difference is that in so little light, the contrast was so much greater.

Same egret.  Different light. — Same egret. Different light.

The Snowy Owl

March 26, 2014 Grace Luddy

A nice picture of seagulls, as well as North Light, which I normally would have appreciated.

I went out first thing in the morning to find the snowy owl. I knew when I found her that I’d have the best chance of getting close if I was alone, so I left the dogs at home, which I never do, which made us all a little sad. I went down the dump road and began the long walk up the west side of the island to North Light. I was ready to see the snowy owl at any moment. I made myself patient, silent, perceptive and benign, like Marybeth or Pocahontas, someone an owl would like to be with.

And then I saw her, the snowy owl, in the far distance. I raised my camera and took a picture. The snowy owl flew. She came toward me and away at an angle, and disappeared off to the east. I can usually focus on birds in flight. Why couldn’t I do it this time? Damn. Plus, my feelings were hurt. The owl had stayed for Marybeth and not for me.

I kept on walking because Marybeth said there had been two owls, one very skittish and one not so much. I went all the way to North Light. I didn’t see anything. Well, I did see a lot of sea glass, but I didn’t care. Stupid sea glass. And I did see many sea gulls and even got some good pictures but I didn’t care about those either. I began to walk back. I saw a man with his dog about a mile away. How was I supposed to get a picture of the snowy owl with people everywhere? Then he cut into the dunes at the middle path that led back up around near the back of Sachem Pond. I thought there might still be a chance if he hadn’t been at the far part, near where I had come in. Then, I saw four more people. I said, “This is how the snowy owl must feel.” I went all the way back, fuming, missing my dogs because I didn’t know how to go for a walk without them. At one point, I turned and a brown lab was there without his person. I talked to him quietly, “Well, hello.” And, “Who are you?” And, “Are you lost?” He looked at me with slightly uncertain and with soulful, serious eyes. He followed me for a little while. That made me feel a tiny bit better. I called my husband. I said, “I’m so upset I feel like I need to take a pill, or something.” He said, “There will be more chances.” I said, “No, there won’t. There really won’t. She is going back to the Arctic and I’ll never see her again.” I got to the people. They were actually OK. I showed them where to look for sea glass and found a particularly interesting piece and let the woman have it, which I thought was very nice of me, under the circumstances. I got back to my car and saw they had parked next to me, and were from Delaware. Stupid Delaware.

A nice picture of a wave.  Looking over the Old Harbor breakwater to Clay Head. — A nice picture of a wave. Looking over the Old Harbor breakwater to Clay Head.

I went out again and took many more pictures of things that would normally make me happy, including some very nice waves but I couldn’t appreciate them at the time because I was being such a head case.

Then I ran into Malcolm Greenaway, a great Block Island photographer. He had been out traipsing in the vicinity of North Light, looking for the snowy owl also. We commiserated. He showed me his equipment and the snowy owl picture he had gotten after trying for almost three hours, but the owl was in the far distance. I told him that Edie had said to look near Cuttings Cottages and I went home to walk the dogs. I was out with them, trying to make it up to them for my neglectful ways, when my husband called. He had just spoken to Malcolm who had called to say that he found an owl exactly where I suggested. So the dogs and I got back in the car and arrived just in time to see the owl flying away. Malcolm had gotten some good pictures and that was something, at least.

The beach on the West Side with no snowy owl.

When I woke up in the night, still inexpressibly sad, I said, “Enough.” And I began to deconstruct my feelings. I asked, “What is it about the snowy owl?” I saw that this was different from all the other times that I have taken pictures. It wasn’t like scores of chances with blue heron or thousands of chances with waves. It wasn’t about being a grateful witness to the myriad beauties and surprises of the natural world. This was about wanting. One particular thing. And having to have it.

I asked myself what having a picture would get me. I remembered that one of my teachers once said, “You can never have enough of something you don’t need.” I saw that this way of wanting was just confirming my lack of something, pushing it farther away. I said, “If I really want the mystery that I feel in a snowy owl, wouldn’t it be just as good not to fix her in time in a picture, to let her remain alive and un-possessed? I thought, “Is there anything here that I don’t have already?” I said, “I claim my sight, my birthright, my ancient and ancestral eyes. I claim my wildish ways.” That calmed me down completely.

So next morning I went out early to look for the snowy owl, but I brought my dogs, at least for the ride. I passed Marybeth’s house and her car wasn’t in the driveway so I thought she might be out looking also. I made up my mind that if I saw Marybeth or Malcolm in the distance I would leave and not screw up their chances, because you know, there are things more important than a snowy owl picture, such as my snowy owl support group, my photography friends. I did scan for the owl, but when I didn’t see her, I found myself picking things up on the beach, not sea glass… well, just a few specimens… but mostly pieces of plastic…a holder for a six-pack of beer, plastic bags and plastic flags and deflated balloons. And here is something strange. I felt a lot of snowy owl-ness all around me or even in me. I just had snowy owl on the brain.

I went out that afternoon and I bumped into Malcolm again…and then again the next day, when again I went out looking. (I was not finding the snowy owl, but I was getting pretty good at finding Malcolm Greenaway.) I told him I would be leaving this weekend to go to Nantucket with my friend Mimi. He offered to help me clean the sensor on my camera. He smiled. He said, “Are you going to look for the snowy owl?” “Of course”, I said, “it’s an illness.” But I knew I'd be fine if I found her and fine if I didn't.

I told Marybeth all about it, including my lust and jealousy. She said she had just been lucky. (That was true. Well, partly true. That woman has superpowers.) She chuckled kindly. She said, “Maybe the universe will reward your good deeds with a snowy owl picture.” I chuckled in return, “You know it never works that way.”

You know, it doesn’t… you can never get the recipe, or the equation or the way to get the soul of nature to buckle under pressure. It is too powerful, wild and wily for containment, but you can learn and work with its wonders. It’s generous and intimate in any case.

PS.

I went out yesterday...just for a short walk with the dogs. I didn’t have much time because a friend was coming to dinner. I'd given up on the snowy owl. I went down by the back of Sachem Pond, not expecting or looking for anything. And guess who was perched on the last house before the ocean? I walked up to the stonewall and took her picture, knowing it wouldn’t be anything special from such a far distance. She was the skittish owl but stayed much longer than I would have expected, leaving only when Molly started to bark. I walked down the path to the water, and there she was in the grasses.

The snowy owl turning her head to look at a crow.

I began to talk. “I know you’re not that happy to see me, especially with the dogs, but if you let me take your picture, I’ll be very grateful.” The dogs started walking toward her and still, she stayed. I called them back and I got a little closer. And closer still. I took her picture again and again, and once again Molly and Wilson wanted to check her out. I called them back. And they came again, and I got a little closer. By then my heart had melted. I said, “Thank you. Thank you.” And, “I hope you have a good trip to the Arctic Circle.”

The snowy owl flying away.  I think that little bird in front of her must have been glad the snowy had better things to do than have a snack. — The snowy owl flying away. I think that little bird in front of her must have been glad the snowy had better things to do than have a snack.

Wilson went about ten feet more. I called him and he sat down and looked at that owl and the owl looked back at all of us and considered for a moment and then calmly flew away. I called Malcolm and Bill and Marybeth to tell them. Marybeth said, “I knew you would get a picture!” I said, “I love that owl. I love her so much, I want to come back as a snowy owl in my next life.” She said, “Maybe you’ve already been one.” I said, “I don’t think so. Dead seagull is not really my favorite food.” She said, “Lemmings then.” I said, “That wouldn't be so bad. I could come back and eat lemmings.”

I went home and made dinner and my friend came and we had a wonderful time. But then I was done. Personal growth can be very tiring.

The same picture as the one above... with a little more perspective.

Many Birds

March 22, 2014 Grace Luddy

No Snowy Owls but lots of Blue Heron at the fish hatchery.

I was off island last week, in Moosup with my family, and the first thing I did go out to look for snowy owls. The thing is… snowy owls have not been in Southern New England since the 1920’s. They may not come again in my lifetime. I’ve been tracking their flight patterns through Project Snowstorm. Here is the site.

The owls I’ve been following are still around, but have moved from where they’ve been all winter and are making long daily flights. They are expected to head north at any time. The fish hatchery should have been a perfect place with big open fields and lots of prey, but I've gone every day and I haven't seen them there, nor in any of the other places where my brother Nick and I have been searching.

We did find other worthy birds - blue heron, and geese and ducks and a few hawks. So I learned again the lesson I always learn as a nature photographer: I’m not in control of my subject. I’ve taken enough pictures so I can make a general plan, but then I get what I get. It's good to be flexible because I can easily miss some amazing things, and I might as well accept that it is going to take some time. But how bad is that? Behind every picture are many hours of happy walking, searching, watching, waiting…expecting and planning and being drawn to certain things and waiting some more and being surprised.

I ask myself why I love birds so much. It could be their feathers… each one a different shape, perfect to its task, perfect in itself and then perfect all together. And it could be how they wear their wings like coats to keep themselves warm… or how when big birds come down to rest, their outstretched wings fold to their compact bodies like origami paper. It could also be their antiquity… they are living descendants of dinosaurs.

This hawk was perched along route 14A, near a swamp in Moosup.  He looked over his shoulder to glare at me and then he took off. — This hawk was perched along route 14A, near a swamp in Moosup. He looked over his shoulder to glare at me and then he took off.

But it’s not just that… it’s the way they act. They are so damned good at everything they do. A flock of geese were flying in “V formation” and then coming down, honking wildly, cupping their wings, falling from the sky like paratroopers.

A crow, and this just amazed me…was flying in a high wind… and the wind got under his wing and pushed it open… it looked like the wind would dislocate his shoulder… but the crow went limp… the wind took that wing and hurled that bird across the sky. And the bird rolled and turned and got control and stretched and flew away.

Heron stand in one spot… they wait for hours. I wonder what they think about during all that time… Are they quiet and empty, or hungry for the next snack to swim by? Or do they consider… you know… plan what they will do each night…figure out what movie to watch? Whatever it is… to be in their zone… to see the world their way… to be so perfectly made and possessed of such perfect behavior… well…that must be something.

Seeing all this has made me want a more instinctive life. I probably don’t use that word correctly from a scientific point of view… what I mean is...I want to live from these questions: How do I trust the way things are? What do I know without knowing why? What am I drawn to? What do I do without even trying? What gives me life and energy?

Photography, this gift of our very technological age, has given me ways to connect more deeply with ancient human behaviors - seeing, searching, hunting, making things from what I find, bringing them back for my tribe.

Barbara Carr is a new friend I’ve made by having this blog. She’s a wonderful artist and a poet and I hope to send you more information about her work soon. She showed me a beautiful painting that she made of a snowy owl. She also told me what Andrew Wyeth said: “One’s art goes as deep as one’s love.” That’s good. Love is an instinct also.

Birds live every moment of their lives in danger. Maybe that’s what makes them so smart and perfect. They have to use their every capacity and that fulfills their lives. I don’t live that way and I hope I never will but perhaps I have other ways…instinctive ways…to remember mortality...to clarify my life...to pay closer attention… to trust who I am…to lose myself in a process…to give it what I have…to love what I do and the people for whom I do it.

This duck and the one above were taken on one of my brother's and my road trips down to Charleston, RI.  It's the same duck just before and in the process of landing.  His mate is making the wake just above him. — This duck and the one above were taken on one of my brother's and my road trips down to Charleston, RI. It's the same duck just before and in the process of landing. His mate is making the wake just above him.

Wilson is on the right... he's almost 10.  And Molly is almost 5. — Wilson is on the right... he's almost 10. And Molly is almost 5.

Yesterday morning I was packing the car and three hawks flew directly over my mother and brother’s house. They circled around and one called to the others and by the time I got the camera they were gone. I thought they had flown in the direction of the hatchery so I went there as soon as I could. I left the dogs in the car, which offended them greatly.

I went back and let the dogs out for what I thought would be a little break. Wilson walked a few feet looking back at me over his shoulder and then he came back for me and did it again. He's older now, and he wasn't like a puppy jumping around. It was more dignified than that... more of an invitation: “Come on… come on...” So we did the circuit again, together.

We’re home since last night, and I’m in the process of rebooting myself into my island life. I don’t feel home quite yet but I know I will by tomorrow when I get out with my camera.

PS. Marybeth Jarrosak just wrote to show me her new snowy owl pictures. They are fantastic. You can see Marybeth's images here. Marybeth very kindly told me exactly where and when to go looking. I'll be out first thing in the morning.

Something Difficult

March 11, 2014 Grace Luddy

Another picture from the same night I wrote about in the last blog post.

You know those beautiful unexpected pictures I put in the post last time? I didn’t tell you something else that happened because it was so difficult. I’ve been thinking about it all week. On one hand I thought, “People’s lives are hard enough." And then I thought, “That’s precisely why I should say it, because it is the truth, and the truth is what people deal with.” It was unfair I thought, to go around in sunshine all the time, like beauty, beauty, blah, blah, blah and not say something that was important to the story of that evening.

So here it is. While I was taking my pictures the dogs kept working the same spot at the edge of Sachem Pond. They were breaking the ice around something and then they started tugging at it. They finally started pulling it out of the water. I saw what it was, a dead baby deer that was under the ice. I saw its delicate ribs and the darkening of the water and the mixture of flesh and bone and teeth exposed because its little body had been there for some time. I said, “Oh….no.” And I called Wilson and Molly and I loved them because this was very special to them but they left it for my sake.

I’ve asked myself about it because I said in another post that difficult things are also beautiful. I can’t say this was beautiful. I can say it was held in a beautiful night, but the actual sight was a shock and then sadness with a certain tender aspect.

All the time I keep holding the image in my mind... I keep returning to it. And it is not just for the deer, but for all of our difficult things…I keep thinking of my friends, many of whom have had recent losses, but it is also of all of our losses…the fact that they can even happen, the fact that life is made this way.

These two pictures are of Japanese Iris, taken on black velvet.

Now I’m thinking maybe I can show you something better than I can tell you. This is out of a series on some flowers I’ve been working on… just some ordinary flowers, just like any other flowers, but as beautiful as anything. If you look closely and especially at the second picture, you’ll see just one or two spots where the edges are curling. This iris is already dying. In fact, by the time I was done with the shoot, it was in pieces. I thought about getting new flowers and starting over, but I felt that the dying edge was also important, or that the flower was more because of it.

My friend Lisa, who has had her share of grief, says, “Everyone loses the same thing, which is everything.” And, “Sadness is never far from me.” and, “Death, when it comes… It teaches you what it is.” And then she goes out to live her heartfelt and honest and generous and courageous and exuberant life. (Her comments were part of long conversations we've had over the years. We've been through a lot together. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how important this good friend is in my life. She is, I believe, going to post a comment when I publish this blog. It will be worth reading as she is loving, articulate and wise.)

I can only say that I know it is difficult to find a person who isn’t grieving and that grief comes in many forms. There is grief like I have for my father, and as big as that is, I would say it is an easier type of grief. There is grief out of order or grief that leaves no place or no future or grief that includes the destruction of love or trust or hope or identity or history or dignity or faith in anything. I know that grief can be like waves or like fire or like a frozen lake or like falling. I know that answers and no answers come to each person in his or her own way and time.

I like to notice my breathing. I like to watch a breath going out and the next one coming after. I have lived my whole life like a watch dog and I like to notice that something is happening, that I don’t have to do it, that something is breathing my life for me. I find it restful, and encouraging, and the opposite of being separate from anyone or anything.

I also do my photography. If you haven’t noticed, I like it a lot. It’s become my way of living... to be out in nature… seeing… to cooperate by seeing and working with the things that are offered… to join life in this way. This is what I’ve come to stand on. It’s not just the beauty… it’s the implication of beauty. I feel if I want to understand the things I don’t know… I can look at the things I do know. Because I have seen that the universe is congruent… it operates in similar ways at every level that I can perceive. So I’m going to say if the life I know is beautiful then the “bigger life”, the life that includes both birth and death…that must be beautiful also.

I’ve been thinking about life getting bigger and bigger the way I talked about it last week, and I also watched a show on TV in the middle of the night: “How the Universe Works”. It told me how the iron and water in my blood were formed over millions of years during a supernova of a double star that happened billions of years ago, and that the gold in my wedding ring was made in an age before that, in another supernova, this time from a single star. Everything we live in, everything we are...was constructed over eons and with incomprehensible violence. They said this on TV…on regular, secular, non-political TV. Scientists said it…that we are that energy… that we are those stars, down to every single molecule in our bodies.

This is the Sombrero Galaxy  (M 104).  Credit: HST/NASA/ESA. — This is the Sombrero Galaxy (M 104). Credit: HST/NASA/ESA.

They said that solar systems, galaxies even, can be destroyed… that it’s happening all the time … in black holes and quasars and places where stars are flung at millions of miles an hour and in explosions that equal the energy expended in the entire rest of the universe. They said that our solar system is looking directly “down the gun barrel” of a potential quasar, which is set to go off any time (any time in astronomical terms is now or in several million years). The program said in fact, it could have already happened, and we just don’t know it yet, on account of the distance and time it would take to get here. It also said not to worry, because if that were the case, it would be over so fast that we wouldn’t know what hit us. I said, “Well, that would take care of my insomnia.” And I said, “Oh, thank you very much. This is just what I need to know at 2 o’clock in the morning.”

There are all these thing…all these big, big things…and still, this little deer is under the ice… and this one death matters to someone… to me… I saw it…

These are things I don’t understand, and I will admit that I spend a good bit of time thinking about them. I live with my questions… wondering what I could possibly tell you about such large and tender things… how I could avoid being trite or intrusive… how I could respect your losses and the way you have to live with them right now. I admit that my body or my sense of being keeps rooting down…wanting… feeling its way a little further into these questions… and meantime I keep breathing.

It will be the seventh anniversary of my father’s death in April… and now is the anniversary of the time when we were all going through it. It was difficult… new parts of my dad’s body not working… new lowering of hopes and expectations… and new exhaustions and new sufferings… past anything we ever thought we could handle and then past that. And we had to say yes to everything because he was going through it and we had to say yes to him.

So he was dying and we were dying with him and then he kept going and we came back. I learned I could function on two hours of sleep and go into the ocean (in Florida) and the ocean would take some of my exhaustion away. I learned that little things matter as much as big things. I learned how people made a difference… when everything was so raw and every moment so precious… how brief words and kindnesses still shine on me as greatness and wisdom... and how utter stupidity, and the damage it did, was always in the form of personal smallness disguised as adherence to procedures.

This picture is called, "Remembering Dad".  I took it on Block Island, in February before he died in April.  It was very cold and the wind was blowing, blasting me with sand.  It was on this walk that I gave up fighting for my father'… — This picture is called, "Remembering Dad". I took it on Block Island, in February before he died in April. It was very cold and the wind was blowing, blasting me with sand. It was on this walk that I gave up fighting for my father's life. He was in a coma in March and I flew down to Florida and got to the hospital at midnight. I was told that he wouldn't live out the night. I walked into his room and said, "Dad, I've got pictures." He woke up. He said, "Watcha got?" He saw this picture and many others, including many waves and deer. He also, and this is more to the point, lived a few more weeks and he saw or spoke to all my brothers and sisters and also to his grandchildren. We took him out on a dock to see the ocean just days before he died.

I was of course zooming around, trying to "fix it." He was in his chair and looking out the window. He said, “Gracie. Stop trying to entertain me. Look at the sky. It’s so blue.” That has helped me a lot… to know at the end of his life, as he was edging over, the blue sky was good for my father. The thing itself… the simplest thing… a most fundamental and obvious thing about living on this particular planet… the only thing left for him when everything else was taken away. That was enough for him. That and his courage… my whole families’ courage during that time helped me afterward and it still helps me now.

Context

March 6, 2014 Grace Luddy

Saturn eclipses the sun.   This image is in the public domain because it was solely created by NASA.  It was obtained from Wikipedia Commons.  Here is a link for more Cassini images.  Here is a link for excellent info on Sat… — Saturn eclipses the sun. This image is in the public domain because it was solely created by NASA. It was obtained from Wikipedia Commons. Here is a link for more Cassini images. Here is a link for excellent info on Saturn including a breakdown of the rings.

Here is a closeup, showing the the earth...

and here is even closer, so you can see the moon.

The image up top is a composite of 131 wide-angle pictures selected from 343 images that were taken over a period of four hours last July by the NASA’s Cassini Spacecraft. (Only 343 pictures in 4 hours... that's how you know I didn't take them!)

The craft is on the other side of Saturn...746 million miles from Earth. I understand that the exposure has been brightened but the colors are natural....those that would be seen by the human eye.

The atmosphere of Saturn is lit up from behind, which is what makes it look like it was drawn with a protractor. The light around the outside shows the edge of the rings. The whole thing is more than 400 thousand miles across. The earth is barely perceptible in the lower right corner of the picture. Mars and Venus are in the upper left corner. (This picture as well as all the others throughout this blog can be viewed in "light box". It might help you see more of the detail.) The earth and her neighbors look so small...like something a photographer would blot away if she were trying to clean up the dust in a picture.

I love these pictures but found them a bit beyond my ken. I went for a walk with Wilson and Molly on Mansion Beach while I tried to think about it. I worked on forming a concept or a feeling. I began constructing it in my mind: Me and Wilson and Molly on the beach...the beach on Block Island...Block Island on the earth...the earth in the solar system...the solar system in the galaxy…each new context nesting and dwarfing the one before. I blew it somewhere between Block Island and the earth...lost any connection to what that could possibly mean. It became like trying to understand how much bigger a number could get by throwing a thousand zeros on the end of it, and then a million more.

So then I thought… “Isn’t it something… that in the midst of all of that…I mean, in the midst of the whole kahoona, the only thing I really know is what I hear and smell and see right now? Here on Mansion Beach in this little moment… here is what seems like everything.”

Then we went to the end of Corn Neck Road to Sachem Pond. It had been grey all day and I didn’t expect any pictures but I went just to see what would happen. I wouldn’t even have had my camera with me if I didn’t have a policy about it. The policy is that I take my camera whenever I go unless it is raining so hard I would break it. This is because without fail…something great will happen (This is a law of nature.) simply because I don’t have it with me.

It was bleak and dull and getting darker. There was some interesting light behind the clouds. I didn’t think it was anything special but I finally realized and began to take many pictures, two of which are shown below. I should have known better from the beginning. It’s the photographer’s job to know this… to find and demonstrate the objective wonder in the ordinary things that are easy to take for granted.

It has been proven to me so many times, that there is nothing that is not worth seeing…that there is beauty in things that I’ve seen once or a thousand times, in things I consider special and things I consider insignificant, on days with good and bad light.

I think there is something fantastic about being a person… in a whole big universe that is also constructed in such a way that the thing I see right now is enough. Enough… meaning each thing contains and is contained in everything. Enough… meaning just as roomy no matter how big or small I go. Enough… meaning just as much wonder or beauty in any size of anything. Enough… meaning a whole world made in each center of perception... worlds and worlds in billions of creatures here and who knows where else? (In the moons of Saturn, perhaps?)

I know the universe is beautiful but I learned something else again this evening, and I’ll probably forget and learn it again and again…how beautiful almost nothing can be.

Looking northeast from Sachem Pond, across the grasses and a little patch of snow to Block Island Sound at dusk.

In the opposite direction... looking northwest over Sachem Pond with a little bit of red from the sunset.

Refuge

February 26, 2014 Grace Luddy

Bald Eagle in flight at the fish hatchery.

The eagles love to perch on the high electrical poles.

I came off the island to celebrate my mother and my sister’s birthdays, but the first thing I did was go to the Fish Hatchery in Central Village, CT. I was hoping to see a snowy owl. Instead, I saw an eagle.

Then my sister, her family, and some friends visited Horizon Wings in Ashford, CT. (This is non-profit organization that is a refuge for raptors. It was formed in 2001 by Mary-Beth Kaeser and her husband, Alan Nordell.) Many birds at the center are rehabilitated and released into the wild. Those are protected from human contact. Sometimes this is not possible because of imprinting or injury. Those are kept at the refuge for the rest of their lives. Some are patiently trained to participate in educational programs. Care for the birds is expensive. They need daily attention. They are given mice or other small animals - killed ahead of time because injured birds in a small enclosure cannot quickly dispatch their prey. Birds need species-specific housing. Some need a source of heat.

Most of the birds were behind plastic netting inside their enclosures. We were instructed for their sake, not to get too close. (In one case we were walking by an enclosure and the bird started to hyperventilate.) So I didn’t get many pictures but I learned some things I didn’t know, including the following:

An eagle can see a mouse from a mile away. It can also see fish underwater.
It has a six-foot wingspan but only weighs twelve pounds.
A three-pound hawk can carry off a squirrel that weighs six pounds.
An owl has twice as many vertebrae in its neck as we do, which allow it to turn its head 270 degrees.
Birds use their wings as a “cape”. A bird with a missing wing is like a person with half a coat. It cannot stay warm. For this and perhaps for other reasons, it is now illegal to operate on a wild bird with a missing wing, even if the operation would save its life.
I knew owls were silent, but I didn’t know why. They have special feathery edges at the end of their wings… special silent edges. And their wings have a narrow range of motion. They are made to provide lift without beating fast.
The fastest bird and in fact, the fastest animal of any kind, is the Peregrine Falcon. It flies high, spots prey and dives backward, plummeting with an average diving speed of 112 miles (and a maximum of 242 miles) an hour. The falcon has special baffles in its beak to keep air from driving in and damaging its lungs.

This is a two-year old Bald Eagle.  In a year or so, he’ll have his characteristic white head.  His brown eyes will turn  the color of cream and eventually to gold. — This is a two-year old Bald Eagle. In a year or so, he’ll have his characteristic white head. His brown eyes will turn the color of cream and eventually to gold.

Mary-Beth and Alan were able to bring this eagle from Washington State after much wrangling and paperwork. He will never be returned to the wild because of an injured wing. Mary-Beth is training him. I try to imagine how counter-instinctive this must be for the eagle…I think he’d just as soon be abducted by aliens. Some handlers withhold food to force a wild animal to come to them but Mary-Beth won’t do that. She makes slower and more sustaining progress through daily contact… and also by singing …letting him hear her constantly… giving him an ongoing thread to associate with care and food and safety.

Mary-Beth is holding him in this picture and singing the song she always sings… “You Are My Sunshine.” After two years, and just a week or so ago, he looked directly into her eyes for the first time, then inclined his head toward her and returned a low call.

This American Crow was attacked by a hawk when he was a chick.  The hawk actually had him in his talons.  Other crows came and harassed the hawk until he dropped the chick, whose shoulder was broken.  This fellow will take things he i… — This American Crow was attacked by a hawk when he was a chick. The hawk actually had him in his talons. Other crows came and harassed the hawk until he dropped the chick, whose shoulder was broken. This fellow will take things he is given, shiny objects like dimes, and save them in his treasure box. He is given extra food each day because wild crows come and he feeds them through the spaces in the netting around his cage.

This Barn Owl was born in captivity.  She was raised as an educational bird and brought to Horizon Wings when the non-profit portion of her facility was closed. — This Barn Owl was born in captivity. She was raised as an educational bird and brought to Horizon Wings when the non-profit portion of her facility was closed.

This is a Screech Owl, injured by flying into a window.  He is being held by my sister, Cathy.  (If you go to the "About" tab and look at our family picture… she’s the little person blowing her trumpet.  As you can see… she’s grown.&n… — This is a Screech Owl, injured by flying into a window. He is being held by my sister, Cathy. (If you go to the "About" tab and look at our family picture… she’s the little person blowing her trumpet. As you can see… she’s grown. And PS - She is a great and I mean great, basketball player. Cathy Bochain. I taught her everything I know about basketball and in spite of that, she's in the Women's Basketball Hall of Fame.)

This is a little Northern Saw-whet Owl.   She was stunned after being slightly grazed by one car, and the driver went back to pick her up.  But in the meantime another car came, and that’s when she was severely injured.  She was … — This is a little Northern Saw-whet Owl. She was stunned after being slightly grazed by one car, and the driver went back to pick her up. But in the meantime another car came, and that’s when she was severely injured. She was so light she was blown around underneath the car as it passed. Her eyes were abraded on the road and she suffered neurological injuries.

This is the same tree as you saw earlier in the blog... except it's in the evening.  I wanted you to see the night coming.  We can't see in the dark, but owls can, and even Wilson and Molly can.  At least in Central Village... night i… — This is the same tree as you saw earlier in the blog... except it's in the evening. I wanted you to see the night coming. We can't see in the dark, but owls can, and even Wilson and Molly can. At least in Central Village... night is still wild and it belongs to them.

I went back to the Hatchery the next evening. Someone started doing target practice somewhere across the river. The sounds of gunshots came every two seconds, and then there was a break and then many more shots in rapid succession. This continued for some time. I saw the eagles but they were up and circling, very high, probably where they felt as safe as possible. Wilson (my older golden retriever), starting shaking. We made our way back to the car through snow, stepping in deep footprints I had made on my visit a few days before. Wilson stopped every five seconds to sit on my feet, to feel the comfort of my legs against his back, but he also blocked my progress. On instinct, I began saying…”Good Wilson… good Wilson… it’s OK, Wilson… good boy…” in a soft sing-song voice. Then I remembered Mary-Beth singing to her eagle.

I have learned by taking pictures of animals that I live beside them in a different universe. Me and birds or… dragonflies, or bees or seals or deer or others… all of us …in the same landscape… usually unaware of each others' presence, and basically oblivious to each others' experience. It fascinates me, with all our differences, that is it is possible to bridge the gulf at all. I have been told that I project human interpretations on animal behaviors. OK, well, that’s absolutely true. (Once when I was by myself on the island I passed an enjoyable evening with a fly. I gave him a little red wine, which did not improve his flying.) But still, I think we are the same in certain ways. We all know what fear is, and food, and trust, and safety (and light for that matter as you know, but that’s another topic). This common knowledge can help us make a connection if we want to. Or need to.

I asked myself why people whose children are grown would tie themselves up with such a constant expense and responsibility. I can only say what is obvious when you meet them. They do it because they love the birds.

These birds are a remnant, luckily saved among thousands… They uniquely live between their world and ours. Perhaps they show us something. I feel like I made the smallest start in such a short visit. I love their golden or amber or their night black eyes. I love their beauty and power. I love their variety and adaptation… the incredible way that they are so suited, so especially and perfectly suited to the requirements of their lives. It’s all of that, but that’s not all. There’s something I feel so strongly but have no words to describe.

I’ve gone back to the pictures again and again, which is the big advantage of pictures. I think of how the birds are caged but also protected. I think of all the other birds out there, their ranges expanding and contracting, the life and death in every encounter, how any one of them is a few days at most, from starvation. I remember that many of the birds in the refuge are endangered or on a watch list. I think of the wild crows coming and wonder why the caged one gives them food. I think of the eagle slowly acclimating to Mary-Beth and finally returning her song.

I don’t want to make this into a romantic story. I know that any one of these birds would eat me for lunch if it could. I’ll say again that I have no words for what I feel when I see them. I can only say they affect me and I can see something deep and significant in their magnificent lives. I see our habitat merging with theirs…Falcons in New York City, Eagles at the Fish Hatchery, Snowy Owls on Block Island… and I hope it continues. I will joyfully go out and take their pictures.

I’m glad that two people have decided to take care of them and tell other people about them. Horizon Wings has a clean up day once a year and the public is invited to help. They also need and accept tax-deductible donations. More information is available here (http://www.horizonwings.org/).

This is the Bald Eagle flying on the first day.

Valentine's Day Waves

February 19, 2014 Grace Luddy

There was a big storm with wind from the northwest at 30 knots, gusting to 50. My friend Linda had already called to tell me the waves near her house were awesome. So of course I had to go out and take pictures.

I went to Vaill Beach. The trail had turned to a stream on account of the snow melt. I climbed down in slippery stages, carefully placing my equipment below me in order to use my hands.

There were new waves churning, made by near wind. These are different than waves that have come from a distance. Waves combine as they travel. They smooth and they organize. They are farther apart. But these were like suds in a washing machine. I wanted to show you their energy and chaos, but I also wanted some form. I didn't want to show you mountains of mashed potatoes.

I climbed up on a boulder, just outside of the impact zone. I saw the white water coming at speed. There is a reason they speak of war in the language of water... an army surging or pouring forward...waves of attack. One wave would come directly at me and before I could recover, another one would come.

The entire island is glacial till, made of sand and clay and boulders.  The bluffs are always unstable - particularly after a thaw. — The entire island is glacial till, made of sand and clay and boulders. The bluffs are always unstable - particularly after a thaw.

Then I made my way around the southwest corner of the island and I felt the full force of the wind. I walked in the margin between the water and the bluffs, which are always in the process of falling. I called my dogs when they got too close. I called “danger!” and they came running. (This is not an example of obedience but of our history together. We spend a lot of time on this beach and they know what that word means.)

I wanted to find patterns. I needed some height. I got myself up to a grassy, stable perch. It was a gentle slope with nothing to calve off, no stones or sand above me to fall. My dogs sat up there with me, smelling the wind, as always. I saw the trains of waves and the wind blowing wave tops sideways. I braced myself in the strong wind. I saw how the light was changing, and I knew I would get some good pictures.

Every wave is true, and everything about it is true, but you can tell a different story through what you choose to show.  In close, you'll show detail and people will feel how it is to be in the water, and farther away they'll see the shape of … — Every wave is true, and everything about it is true, but you can tell a different story through what you choose to show. In close, you'll show detail and people will feel how it is to be in the water, and farther away they'll see the shape of the ocean. There is always a series of questions... Where does a wave begin and end? Where is the best light shining? Where is the clearest pattern? What is the most beautiful or powerful thing?

I was weighing my situation. The waves would be getting bigger. It was a full moon, and a very high tide was coming. I didn’t want to have to hug the bluffs and I didn’t want to walk through water that was 39 degrees, Fahrenheit. I told myself it was time to leave.

But the colors were getting glorious...

... and the cormorants began circling round and round. They were working between the sky and the ocean. I wanted them low. I wanted their dark shapes in front of white water. I found myself saying, “Come on… come on…” and then they flew right where I wanted.

And the colors kept deepening...

I began to say, "39 degrees is not that cold." and "I'll only get wet on my feet." And I stayed for several more minutes. I finally talked myself into leaving by making a number of excellent observations. I said I didn’t have to cling to a dangerous situation…that I would find new things on my way. I reminded myself that I have always found surprising new beauty, the moment I moved along.

So I was walking back and I actually practiced how I would tell you about my maturity and respect for the forces of nature, you know, being one with the elements and everything. And I did get some wonderful pictures.

Facing northeast, the sky was already darkening, and waves were breaking on the same boulders as they had been at the beginning of my expedition.  Now, the waves were catching the evening light.  It helps my heart to see this... light and … — Facing northeast, the sky was already darkening, and waves were breaking on the same boulders as they had been at the beginning of my expedition. Now, the waves were catching the evening light. It helps my heart to see this... light and wind and water and stone...what could be better?

There was only one spot where I had to rush, timing myself between waves, and everywhere else I had lots of room. I'm not saying I was reckless. Living on Block Island has been a progressive realization, not just of beauty but of danger. As Edie's father told her, "You never turn your back on the ocean". If I had doubts I would have listened. But my body turned around and I just let it happen. I followed my pictures. I went back and I stayed until sunset.

I Like Light

February 13, 2014 Grace Luddy

When I go out to take pictures, I’m sometimes on a mission… I want to find the owl again or find another wave… but I’m always looking for light. That’s what started me as a photographer… the clean green light inside the ocean. But even in childhood, my earliest memories always included light. There was light on the apple blossoms when I sat in my tree fort, light in shafts full of dust when we played in the hay in the barn, light on my bedroom ceiling when a car went by, even light in a glass of water. I couldn’t get over that. How could anything be almost invisible if I could touch it… feel it…hold it in my hand?

Light draws me to it. I think it’s human instinct. Light, illumination… those words mean truth to us. I’m not like Wilson and Molly, my golden retrievers who sit facing the wind with their noses upturned together, reading the news of the day and building their world around what they smell. I’m a person. I know the world through light.

We specialize in sight, or more precisely, in daytime sight, with eyes that see color and look forward and rotate in their sockets. We are unlike owls, with their widely spaced, unmovable eyes. They have to turn their whole heads to see anything, but they gain spectacular depth and nighttime vision. (Their eyes weigh as much as our own. This is so interesting when you think of our relative size and of all the elegant economies built into owls for flight. And I might as well say, since I’m already digressing, that eyes are never made hollow like feathers and bones. Even cameras and lenses are hollow, but all eyes are wet and full and heavy to carry, especially for owls.)

Photography is just a modern way to assist us in a most instinctive and ancient form of perception… It can help us pay attention. It can give us a way to connect to what’s real. It can help us see faster or slower, or closer or farther away, and that can surprise us, the way we were surprised by everything as children. It can move us into wonder.

So there I was, back on the path to Mansion Beach again, taking pictures in the same place again, like I’ve done a hundred times. (There was a black and white picture a couple of posts back… these are the same trees… just made different by the different light.) I looked for light in the ice that was coating the branches and in the snow that had come down wet and refrozen. I removed the UV filters on my lenses. I left the lenses unprotected. I wanted the light unfiltered.

And then of course I took my pictures home. That’s was another chance… a really good chance to live with what I’d seen…to take the time I needed to let it soak in, to catch up with how it was out there.

Words are like wind, churning up waves in a train that continues even when I’ve stopped writing. I think of something else and then I run back and change things around and then I do it again. And it’s not just the words but the rhythms beneath them, that start roaming around in my head.

Pictures put me in a different mind. I don’t cogitate the way I do with writing. I feel more certain and settled. I don’t build things bean by bean. The whole thing is altogether. I know what to do just by knowing. It’s closer to the core.

When my thoughts get overcrowded, I look at my pictures or I stop and look out the window. I run my attention out through my eyes. Then my brain starts getting some room to breathe; my mind starts feeling a bit more smooth and clean.

I want to try to bring vision and words together…to be instinctive and simple. I want to say what I know when I’m only looking. And what the owl knows and what Wilson and Molly also know, despite our different ways. I want to say it in the present tense, for how it is right now.

There is light here. I like it. I’ll stay.

A Little Exposure

February 6, 2014 Grace Luddy

I love to work on my blog posts in secret but when I publish them I usually feel exposed. It has taken me a while to put my inner experience out where people can see it, and I admit that it can be a little frightening.

I have some ways to help myself. I tell myself my fears are irrelevant. I also have a personal “dementor”, a wraith-like creature from the Harry Potter movies. He's a little Lego figure less than an inch high. I let him hurl his opinions in his tiny, squeaky voice. I also ask my husband to tell me again that he still likes the blog, and he does. He reads it every time and he clicks the little heart icon, which makes a “like”, which is good for our relationship. I sit myself down with encouraging words as if I’m speaking to a 7th grader, which is about the grade I’m in when I’m having these feelings. But none of that worked this last time. There was nothing I could do but live through my feelings, stand next to them, give myself, to the best of my ability, some sympathetic friendship. So then I felt some things I try hard not to feel, with more painful memories emerging as the day went on.

Friends stopped by. Gabby brought six of the most beautiful blue eggs, laid by her father’s chickens. Chris came to show me his new pictures of a snowy owl. He’d also gone clamming and he brought me a dozen.

I remembered what my cousin Liz said the last time we talked: “There are both constructive and destructive forces." And I started to think about my songbirds - how they like to stay in the thicket where the hawks and owls can’t reach them and how they also come out to the feeder. How they go back and forth between safety and danger, how they choose their degree of exposure.

I thought, “We all have to be who we are.” And I remembered what some of us have gone through to do so. And then I thought, “We live on more than safety.” Then I felt we are all plants growing through stones and earth - unstoppably growing through all the risks and dangers, whether they’re real or re-lived or imagined. And then I thought, “We can help each other better because of it.” And then I thought that none of this would happen if the purpose of life was to have an easy time.

Then Edie called and Chris called to tell me their snowy owl was back and perching near their houses. So I went and Chris was working in his driveway. Now Chris grew up on Block Island. His long years of living here and his family legacy of farmers, hunters and fishermen, and his personality in general, have given him an intelligent…and heart-felt… and careful…and perceptive…and responsible…and uncanny…and effective relationship with nature. He can find Indian arrowheads on a stony beach. Do you know what arrowheads look like on a stony beach? They look like stones. I’ve tried to find them. It’s impossible.

He stopped me. He pointed out the owl. He said, “Be careful or he’ll fly. Park here, not there. You can get out of the car; you can step over the stone wall, there. Walk slowly and quietly.” He answered my question, “Yes, you can keep your yellow raincoat on. He’s colorblind.” He said, “Do you see he’s young? He still has his juvenile feathers. Do you see the feathers that cover his beak to keep it warm? Do you see him preening and fluffing to trap the air? He’s flown from the Arctic Circle. He’s perfectly made for the cold.” He motioned with his hand…”If you step over that line, he’ll fly.” So I knew an expert when I saw one and I did as he advised and everything happened exactly as he said.

So I got my first pictures of a snowy owl. I went over to Chris. I said, “That was wonderful.” He said, “I’m glad you got your pictures.” Then I drove to the dump beach on the west side of the island, and on the way I realized that things had changed…that I was feeling deeply happy. I walked with the dogs to North Light, stopping to visit my secret dune valleys. I picked up some beautiful seagull bones and also some sea glass including the first red piece I have ever found in my entire life. What a good day.

PS: Marybeth sent me an article about snowy owls. Here is the link: (http://aeon.co/magazine/nature-and-cosmos/the-snowy-owl-is-a-messenger-from-the-arctic/?utm_source=Aeon+newsletter&utm_campaign=81f5e0df5b-Daily_Newsletter_February_4_20142_4_2014&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_411a82e59d-81f5e0df5b-68638837).

PPS: My sister Cathy (today is her birthday) has a friend who saves and rehabilitates raptors (owls, hawks, eagles) in Ashford, CT. Here’s that link as well: (https://www.facebook.com/horizonwingsraptorrehabilitationandeducation).

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