A day in the Smokies always fixes whatever is mis-aligned in me. My thoughts tumble over the river-rocks of my problems, and begin to run clear, cool, and compelling. Paint, prose, and poetry happen easily up there.
After all, I can travel to all the places. All the magic, artful places. But my life won't become artful until I become artful.
And the art is found in the attention I pay to what is.
In that primitive and special mountain spot, I remember that I have the capacity to turn ordinary occasions into living portraiture, simply by the focus of my attention. When I choose the all-there moment, I know I've put myself in that space where "art is inevitable", and poems too.
I know for sure things like "poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance."
So there I was, night before last, light-speckled and paint-stained, and completely content to simply be. I'm always in imminent danger of writing poetry on days like that.
I Am The Number 50
I am the number 50
A good way from the beginning and
A good way from the end
I am silver dandelion fluff
For the first time
That there was
Good music in the 80's
*thank you to my daughter Hannah McConnell for this poignant capture...I still say you are a photographer in the making.