Standing at the Edge of the World

standing_on_worlds_edgeNaomi and I took a drive to Pemaquid Point yesterday afternoon. It was a beautiful fall day. The sky was cloudless and the horizon sharp in the dry air.

As we walked to the point, a cloud lay on the water well off the coast; fog hugging the ocean is a common sight in Maine. We were surrounded by blue ocean and sky.

In a matter of minutes, the fog bank rushed over us like a tsunami. But unlike the surf, the bank rolled in like a whisper. The late afternoon sun turned the air gold. The world, which seemed so solid and large a moment ago, fell away. Click on the image for a larger view.

Swift River

moon_riverThe Swift River in the White Mountains National Park in New Hampshire follows the path of the Kancamagus Highway. The moonlight illuminates the coursing water and polished stone. The interplay between these two elements reveals their shared destiny. Both creating and destroying their mutual forms.swift_riverClicking on the images will enlarge them.

Schoodic Peninsula

schoodic_point_panoAcadia National Park is a magical place. It is also a very popular destination. Schoodic Peninsula is a small section of the park that is off the beaten track. It is a hour or so by car from the main park, a drive that takes you through a series of small Maine villages that have not had the commercial development of places like Bar Harbor and Ellsworth. This view across West Pond shows Mt. Desert Island (pronounced like the verb to desert, rather than the noun desert) in the distance—click on the image to enlarge it. A one-way loop road takes you to Schoodic Point and the Gulf of Maine.

Memories

I have been meditating on memories and genealogy. I am from a generation that broke away from the extended family structure. Over time, I have inherited objects from my grandparents and great grandparents. I have heard stories about them. The few memories I have are fractured and distant. All of these people are now dead. What remains are these objects. This image is from this work in progress.vise_4This is a small vise from my maternal grandfather, a boat builder from Nova Scotia, Canada. My memories of him are cursory: a short man, a quiet man, a stern man. I don’t remember talking much with him. I have one memory of playing with him when he used the handle of his walking stick to trip me up. We repeated this game for several minutes: him catching my ankle, and me falling and laughing.