Source: google.com via Robert on Pinterest

What's Left Behind

The wind at Sleeping Bear creates art. Here in the hollows the wind is funneled and intensified and only the weightiest of the dune composites can resist. And even these bulky bits of shell and gravel are aligned into artistic "waves."
There are times in my life when God's wind blows over me. It's not hurricane force — just a steady, compelling wind. There has been neither the storm of tragedy nor flood of blessing that wakes my soul — just the dogged, daily, awareness of a God who pursues me. What is left behind is the weightier things — the things of substance; the things that really matter; things of great beauty — relationships with family, friends, neighbors, and the need to take care of their physical and spiritual needs. Thanks be to God for His consistent, persistent love.

The Right Combination

I was at the dunes last week and enjoyed a beautiful calm, clear, frosty sunrise. I spent the first 45 minutes up on the high bluffs overlooking Sleeping Bear Bay and enjoyed the patterns and textures revealed by the exquisite morning light. But I have to admit I probably wasn't as attentive to the visual gifts as I should have been. It was the migrating waterfowl and shorebirds that made me stop and smile. Loons, buffleheads, mallards, Canadian geese, sandpipers, mergansers and others — their individual voices and their splashing bounced off the the flat waters of the Manitou passage.
As the sun burned off the frost on the highest ridges I skidded down through the ghost forest swale to the shoreline. From above I had noticed a slim line of white that defined the water's edge. I had assumed it was just a little ice left from the larger ridges of mid-winter. But as I got closer I noticed its crystalline nature. Beautiful shards of thin ice all stacked at the waters edge just as neatly as if someone had gently broken them and placed them piece by piece on top of one another. Another gift from the Sleeping Bear. As I made my few shots I imagined the perfect combination of events that created this construct. A perfectly still night (and I mean perfectly still) with freezing temps that allowed a thin layer of ice to form, followed by a a gentle morning breeze that raised just 5 or 6 inch swells — just enough to brake the ice and push it onshore. Or maybe it was a passing lake ship that created enough of a swell to make the miracle. I had to remember to not let my curiosity kill the moment. Whatever right combination of things made this happen, I'm grateful and I just need to accept and wonder at it's beauty.

Give Me Time

I find that revisiting things that I started working on months if not years ago can be a good thing. There is something about putting some distance between you and moments of creative energy that helps refine the image. I wouldn't say it's true all the time — sometimes immediacy is a part of the story you have to tell, but in many cases, like the image I put together here, it needed time to "cook." When you're out there in the field there are often a few visuals that grab your attention and you can become a little fixated on just those objects or plays of light, and when you come back and sort through what you shot you are looking for those few visual cues. But given a little time you begin to see new things that were going on and your brain starts to make connections between one visual and the next. Of course those connections often come to me in the middle of the night and then it keeps me awake — but that's another story. I've been reading a lot about Andrew Wyeth lately, and how he set aside paintings for long periods before finally finishing them. If I remember correctly there was one painting that he started and gave up on, then his kids needed a nice flat board to put their toy train layout on, so the back side of this painting served them very well. Then, years later, at the encouragement of a friend he decided to pull the old piece out and finish it up and he was very pleased with the result.
So I've resolved not to be in a hurry to finish my pieces, and to not totally give up on making an image from a piece that doesn't work right away. Just give me some time.

The Old Tree

I wonder what this tree has seen? It stands at the center of a long abandoned homestead in the Port Oneida district of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. It wouldn't surprise me if the tree is 150 years old. Maybe the family who homesteaded here picked this spot because of this beautiful young maple that shaded the yard. Maybe they planted the tree in anticipation of the shade it would provide. I wonder if it watched young men leave home to fight in the Civil War? They were probably young men who could barely speak English. I wonder how many family members gathered under it's branches for a 4th of July picnic? And how many children climbed into the branches to wave goodbye to their neighbors as their horse and wagon headed home.
I suppose the tree saw and heard its share of tragedy. Maybe a child was lost to influenza or a grandparent to a farm accident. The soil here is rather poor so I don't suspect it was an easy life. The tree probably watched family members leave for extended periods as they picked up jobs in neighboring communities to supplement their income. Maybe the whole family left for Detroit in the 40's to make planes and tanks for the war effort.
When did the family finally abandon this farm? It must have been hard to leave this beautiful place. I wonder if they could have ever imagined how desirable and valuable this land is today?
For me as an artist it's a place of beauty — but as I walk around the old tree I can't help but wonder.

Broken

I have long held the belief that the reason so many people in "modern" society have rejected or neglected their faith is because they distance themselves from the power of the natural world. Many of us work in controlled environments, we get around in our private glass and steel bubbles on wheels with air conditioning, surround sound, navigation systems, and voice activation. We have homes that condition our water and our air and bring us explorers standing on the edge of volcanoes in high definition at 52 inches diagonally — while tucked in our overstuffed chair. We walk to the kitchen and open a door to a cool stash of entrees that can be popped in the microwave for three-and-one-half minutes to provide us an exotic steamed meal.
Every once in awhile we get a pint-sized dose of reality when a thunderstorm interrupts our day at the lake, but we never stick around to experience the full effect of the storm. We retreat to our autos, or cottage, or park pavilion until it passes.
I wonder what it was like to take a covered wagon across America on the Oregon trail in 1840? Out on the great plains you see a massive storm build on the horizon. There is little you can do but hope and pray that it will dissipate before it reaches you. And when it doesn't, you huddle in the wagon. The leaky patched canvas is more a liability than protection as the first violent wind gusts are caught in these prairie sails and rock the wagon from side to side. Your hair stands on end each time the lightening cracks. Deafening thunder seems to roll continuously. Horizontal rain and hail crush the tall grass around you. You are totally vulnerable for most of an hour.

In today's world we're pretty good at avoiding vulnerability.
Looking at Little Traverse Bay this past weekend I marvel at the incredible energy in the form of wind and water that snapped these thick slabs of ice and then stacked them up on the end of the bay. Some slabs were at least eight inches thick and must have weighed thousands of pounds. I think how easily I could be broken, even though I'm playing it safe in the way I conduct my life. I am really vulnerable. It provides a lot of comfort to me that I belong body and soul to a God who is much greater than myself.

Into the Woods

I just had to walk into the woods. I think it's where imagination lives.
I imagine how much fun it would be to construct a tree house environment in such a place. All these nice straight trees are lined up in nice straight rows — making it easy to create a whole other world about 30 to 40 feet up. Just lash some horizontal poles and lay down some slab wood as a foundation — creating a house where chickadees are your neighbors.
And how much fun it would be to just play games in this woods — the trees providing the streets and alleys for tag and capture the flag.
And on a hot summer day, just disappearing into the woods, enjoying the cool shade, and laying down on a soft bed of pine needles under a flickering light canopy.
And it certainly was fun for my visual imagination.
Some people don't think they have an imagination. That's not true. They just haven't stopped the car along the road and walked into the woods. The folks at your destination can wait. Come on, you've all seen those lines of pine trees in your peripheral vision — alternating flashes of light and dark. Next time just pull over and walk into the woods.