Here we are beginning the second quarter of the year with April showers and a high of 65 and that’s this morning. Last week was busy with the little man on spring break. There were Mario Kart races, pancakes in the morning, and the Imagination Station.
I made this image dark on purpose using a texture by Distressed Jewells. I guess I was in a somber mood while processing.
It was cold, windy, and overcast a good share of the week. We didn’t get kite flying in, but anytime a breeze blows kites soar, but flying still happened.
I’ve been negligent with the 365 project and so far behind that I’m dropping the 365 and just calling it All These Things. I’d love those three words as a title for a photoblog, but it’s all ready been snapped up and yes, I’m rambling.
Do you have spring dreams? One of mine is to create a focus with my camera and writing.
Two weeks ago, B & J and I went on a Sunday photo expedition. We stopped by the home of a gardener I’ve known for many years. To call Joyce a passionate grower is an understatement. She lives and breathes growing. She is a consummate grower…she grows indoors and out. I’m guessing that it’s more about the plants then the overall garden design, but I’m going to pose that question to her. The only thing blooming in her garden were crocus, but the buds on her daffodils were fattening in preparation for the golden explosion of color.
Joyce’s garden is going to be my photo project for the rest of the growing season. My focus will be on photographing, at least every two weeks, what’s blooming in her garden. As soon as the rain stops this week, I’m heading to Joyce’s garden and I doubt I’ll be disappointed in what I find.
I'm ending with a processed photo of a poignant statue I found in a cemetery on the edge of Bryan, Ohio. Yeats' poem, The Stolen Child, just seems to fit the photo. The scrolling texture came from Shadowhouse Creations.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
~ W. B. Yeats