Submitted

I submitted the photos today.  What photos?  These photos.

Here’s what I can tell you in addition to what I already said about this.

The book is a field guide to wildflowers.  Its scope appears regional.

I can tell you it’s being written by “noted naturalists Rick and Nora Bowers, with Stan Tekiela,” and will cover more than 200 species.

The publisher says their “goal is to educate people on the wonderful variety of wildflowers and the types of habitat critical to their survival.”

Although I only posted a few photos of the specific flower about which they contacted me, I provided them with the handful of images I have of that species.  They can peruse what’s available and decide which, if any, fulfill their requirements.

If they decide to use one or more of the photos, we’ll sign a contract selling publication rights to them for the image(s) they choose to publish, and only for the one book presently being considered.  Any future use will require a new contract.

You can see the flower in question in the last photo of this post and in the whole of this post

I again will admit what I’ve said all along: I’m an amateur when it comes to photography.  The photos I post here are the result of luck and numbers (i.e., I take a lot of pictures with the hope that at least one of them will be presentable).  To have been contacted about this represents a thrill I never imagined and can’t describe.

Even if none of the images are used, receiving that preliminary e-mail was a fantastic buzz.  It was also a kick in the pants telling me to keep doing what I’m doing, to keep snapping photos of what catches my eye.  Somewhere, someone wants to see the same thing.

Or so I believe.

A desolation called peace

Although I generally refrain these days from participating in the political distress created by the blogosphere, I wanted to ramble a bit on some thoughts I’ve had of late.

We Americans have lost much in recent years.  No longer are we free to speak our minds.  No longer are we guaranteed our day in court.  No longer are we safe from police-state tactics.

Regrettably, we now represent the very enemy we claimed to abhor throughout the Cold War.

Persons being deported are drugged against their will with powerful medications that are unwarranted and dangerous.

Anyone fingered as a “person of interest” finds that we no longer enjoy any constitutional rights.

Every phone call, every e-mail, every fax, every communiqué is monitored.  Warrantless searches are now all too common.  Judicial review and protection are things of the past.

Torture, that boundary America swore never to cross, is standard practice.  Humans represent nothing more than fodder for the cannons and canons of violence.

The separation of powers exists only in history books.  The inherent protection of three branches has been subjugated by the overgrown executive’s successful theft of authority.

I fear this could be the last presidency peacefully obtained.  In fact, I fear this could be the last presidency of America as we know it.  If my worst fears are realized, our nation will succumb to civil war and domestic mayhem within two years—especially when the time comes for power to be taken from the vile creature now occupying the Oval Office.  I fear he won’t give it up now that he’s tasted dictatorship and rule without constitutional restraint.

Let me finish with this, for I think it describes the situation perfectly:

“A rich enemy excites their cupidity; a poor one, their lust for power. East and West alike have failed to satisfy them. They are the only people on earth to whose covetousness both riches and poverty are equally tempting. To robbery, butchery and rapine, they give the lying name of ‘government’; they create a desolation and call it peace.”

— Tacitus

They’re not enough

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

LD recently asked me to participate (secretly) in xocobra’s weekend of spiritual renewal.  Excepting the Christian overtones of the event, I felt both honored and challenged by her request:

[xocobra] is going through a spiritual renewal weekend… There he will receive notes and letters as a surprise. Would each of you consider writing him a note or letter of encouragement or something that would be special to him about what he’s meant to you in your life? It doesn’t need to be lengthy and anything would be great!

Truth be told, I was on call last week and had little time to think about it.  I received her message Tuesday evening when I arrived home from the office.  That night remained busy for me and I set her note aside.

Wednesday evening I found myself with a bit of time, so I returned to the e-mail and considered what I might say.

Let’s be clear: xocobra means a lot to me.  I love him dearly.  Unfortunately, and in retrospect, putting into words the importance of such people is nothing short of impossible.  Nevertheless, I tried.

I (digitally) penned the missive in the few minutes I had available, then I sent it off on its journey.

Yet I couldn’t help but feel my words rang hollow, that the trite and paltry verbiage failed completely to say that which needed to be said.

Forget what we’re told
Before we get too old

A lifetime of family and friends in this human culture of ours has taught me a profound lie offered as significant truth: When you love someone, say so.

Only after this exercise at LD’s behest did I begin to realize words are feeble instruments when it comes to the meaning of people, to the emotional bonds we share.  Saying “I love you” seems to matter, but it really doesn’t when the words are as overused as that once magical expression.

Still, too often we fail to communicate what we feel to those who deserve most to hear it.  Seldom are the moments when we really look at someone who matters and try to make clear how much they mean to us.

What needs to be said most often usually is said all too rarely.  Even more infrequently is it shown.

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

I wonder, looking back at life, how many times I’ve let a moment slip away without communicating what mattered most to those who mattered most.  More troubling is how often I failed to let my feelings manifest in something other than words. . .when words simply wouldn’t have been enough.

Whether in a comfortable silence, a kiss or a hug, a gentle touch, or an ordinary moment of togetherness, I wonder how often I’ve let slip by me the most critical seconds in life when what was needed was a demonstration of my love.

And here a day after the ninth anniversary of Henry‘s death, less than two months after the anniversary of Derek’s death, and after I visited family Saturday who reminded me how fragile life is and how easily it can end—and how all too soon it does end, I’m left wondering how I can ever make clear to those who matter precisely how much they mean to me, how important they are, how critical their collective presence is in my life.

I don’t quite know
How to say
How I feel

Those three words
Are said too much
They’re not enough

[lyrics from “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol]

Random Thought

As I’ve asked so many times before: What pain will you suffer for those whom you think to be lesser beings?  What heartache will you endure to see to the end the shorter plight of lives inhuman?

Personally, I see no end to the lengths to which I would go. . .

If it should be that I grow frail and weak
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this — the last battle — can’t be won.
You will be sad I understand,
But don’t let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day, more than the rest,
Your love and friendship must stand the test.
We have had so many happy years,
You wouldn’t want me to suffer so.
When the time comes, please, let me go.
Take me to where my needs they’ll tend,
Only, stay with me till the end
And hold me firm and speak to me
Until my eyes no longer see.
I know in time you will agree
It is a kindness you do to me.
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering I have been saved.
Don’t grieve that it must be you
Who has to decide this thing to do;
We’ve been so close — we two — these years,
Don’t let your heart hold any tears.

this is the garden

A pink rose in sunshine

this is the garden: colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden.    Time shall surely reap
and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here emraptured, as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

—e.e. cummings

[photo taken yesterday at the family farm]