Photo Hunter: water

When Peace Like A River
(It Is Well)
lyrics by Horatio G. Spafford

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrow like sea billows roll;
What ever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
It is well with my soul;
It is well
It is well, it is well with my soul
with my soul;

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control.
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And has shed his own blood for my soul.

It is well with my soul;
It is well
It is well, it is well with my soul
with my soul;

My sin--O the bliss of this glorious thought!--
My sin, not in part, but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross and I bear it no more;
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

It is well with my soul;
It is well
It is well, it is well with my soul
with my soul;

O Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll,
The trumpet shall resound and the Lord shall descend;
"Even so" it is well with my soul.

It is well with my soul;
It is well
It is well, it is well with my soul
with my soul.

“They say that every snowflake is different. If that were true, how could the world go on? How could we ever get up off our knees? How could we ever recover from the wonder of it?” Jeanette Winterson


Water is also one of the four elements, the most beautiful of God's creations. It is both wet and cold, heavy, and with a tendency to descend, and flows with great readiness. It is this the Holy Scripture has in view when it says, "And the darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters." Water, then, is the most beautiful element and rich in usefulness, and purifies from all filth, and not only from the filth of the body but from that of the soul, if it should have received the grace of the Spirit. John of Damascus


NASSA believes that stone skipping is a uniquely ancient activity, that touches 'something' very special in those participating. NASSA actively promotes and encourages stone skipping as a 'natural' non-competitive recreation, and as an internationally standardized competitive sport. NASSA is continually designing programs for various groups of individuals like summer camps, church groups, handicapped and disadvantaged groups, scouting groups, clubs, and corporations. (North America Stone Skipping Association)


“Pick a suitable rock. Rocks with edges, bad. Rocks without edges, good.” • “Bring arm back slowly. Stay low. Attempt to keep stone parallel with water’s surface.” • “Let ‘er rip. Count number of skips. (Note: A “kerplunk” does not count as a skip.)” Eddie Bauer


In France, stone skipping is known as, 'ricochet', in Ireland as, 'stone skiffing', in Denmark as, 'smutting'. EVERY language I have accessed has a unique word or term for skipping stones from Hindi to Russian to Chinese. Jerdone (Jerry) Coleman-McGhee


Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is hardly a waste of time. ~John Lubbock


“One measure of how creative you are is how you respond to changes in your circumstances and environment. How flexible are you? Consider how water adapts to its environment: evaporation, condensation, snowflake, melting, flowing, goes around rocks, fills containers, etc.” Unknown



Well I'm knee deep in loving you done got deeper than I wanted to
It'll probably drown me before I'm through
But I done got knee deep in loving you
And Lord I'd wade your water just enough to cool me down
Wet my feet and find the way to some dryer ground
But I keep on a gettin' deeper and there's just one rain ago
Too late I find I'm caught up in your undertow
Cause I'm knee deep...
Everybody's saying you're not the staying kind
Ain't it like a natural fool to think you will this time
It's too late for changing this feeling down in me
I'm standing here with more than just sand on my feet
Cause I'm knee deep...
Well I'm knee deep...
Well I'm knee deep
DAVE & SUGAR | Knee Deep In Loving You Lyrics



You cannot hear a waterfall if you stand next to it. I paint my jungles in the desert. Macedonio de la Torre


Water, like religion and ideology, has the power to move millions of people. Since the very birth of human civilization, people have moved to settle close to it. People move when there is too little of it. People move when there is too much of it. People journey down it. People write, sing and dance about it. People fight over it. And all people, everywhere and every day, need it. -Mikhail Gorbachev


With foam and spray and a boundless roar, the sleepless sea calls us toward the shore. The wisdom of all life lives here, where the land and water kiss, a shimmer of waves and wind whispering the secrets of our origins. How easily we are lured by scientific knowledge to measure this mystery - calculating geology, biology, climate. But when an offshore breeze gusts life into our lungs, we feel our souls brim with immeasurable passion for the testament of the waters. By simply sitting, listening, breathing, we feel the pull of the tides and the immensity of the sea connection us to all things. Todd Runestad



We never know the worth of water till the well is dry. ~Thomas Fuller,

things made

A couple of crafts that will be posted to my etsy shop shortly.

A wall pocket, although it stands well too and would not need to be hung at all.


Painted and distressed candlestick with an old enamel plate on top. Would be great for a candle, a display, or wrapped goodies.

nothing to say

home coming

The last evening of our stay in Kansas, we were at the farm. The place that my grandparent's spent most of their married life together, the place where Mom grew up, the place where my Uncle M now lives.


We listened to the piano music of one of my brilliantly talented cousins and as the darkness began to settle, I wandered off to take pictures in the fast fading light. I wandered back and K's music was still playing. And unconsciously I put my arms around my Uncle's neck and said it was good to be home and for a few moments I was myself. I was M fully in the moment, fully at home in Kansas. It was a beautiful moment - it brought tears to my eyes and then it passed that quickly. I am M of the Northern lands a Mom and Wife struggling to make sense of it all.


I received many family objects when I was home. Hankies are among the great treasures, however, as I intend to use them in projects, I will save showing them until they are used and then you can see them at my craft blog.

Of grandma's piece work and crochet, I received a simple polyester-squares-tied throw, a huge granny squares lap afghan, a leaf wall-hanging, and this quilt. One thing about grandma is that it is almost impossible to find anything of hers that didn't have pink or purple in it. :)

I have shared many pictures of the quilt, far more than I ought, but it was difficult to limit shots of cool fabric pieces to just this many!!





Note the orange striped piece of fabric. I recognize many of the pieces in this quilt but this one in particular is interesting to me. It reminds me of the house dresses that Grandma wore all the time. This was an everyday dress and while I am sure she wore other dresses for the purpose too, I always remember her as wearing one made of this fabric when we butchered chickens.



Among the many, many pieces of jewelry I received are two broaches which are now on my jean jacket. The posy broach is one I got from my Mom several years back the other two are from Grandma. The flower one is probably an inexpensive enamel thing but it pleases me for its retro feel. My favorite by far is the beaded and jeweled fancy. It is something that someone put together out of bits and pieces of old jewelry and wired onto an older broach. My Mom thinks perhaps it came to Grandma from Dorothy B.


One of the treasures I brought home with me is this embroidered "Home Sweet Home" hanging. My Mom thinks it was done my Great Aunt M. I remember her vaguely, as a bent and crooked woman always in a simple house dress styled dress with a white cardigan with knee high nylons instead of the then popular panty hose. I do know that she was a fabulous embroiderer, as a result when I embroider, I think of her and of my Mom's painstaking efforts (because I was a rebellious and difficult student) to teach embroidery to me.


The first day of spring arrived unnoticed by me while I was in Kansas. For us in this great northern land - the last chance of frost is about a week before Memorial weekend. So we relish each little sign as it arrives. One favorite omen of spring is that little pleasure known as pussy willows - we pick them and carry them home, however, they are not permitted in the house as they cause my hubby's lungs to close completely. These are actually big fuzzy birch buds and they remind me of a fanciful drawing of pussy willows with furry kittens for the buds - which remind me of the wonderful Margaret Wise Brown Book - "Pussy Willow."


As I sit here, I can hear the results of one of our happy spring rituals. Eight windchimes hang in various locations around the house. On the front porch is on of the beautiful tuned chimes - the rest of our chimes are thrift store finds.

My husband teases me by saying that I must be trying to drive away evil spirits. All I know is that it is a spring ritual that I love. And my girls love.





Do you remember when I talked of feeling as if the language I spoke growing up is understood by no one? In one respect that is true, as children grow they learn more about their parent's childhood and they realize how different and alien it is from their own. And so their accent will always be different than our own. Yet, those who speak our language best are the ones who live with us and in the end that is home. Home is life with those who journey with us on our road to the cross.

home coming

would you like something a bit less introspective?

I miss the old playground equipment that allowed play as exciting as a ride on the midway. Yes it was dangerous but today's playgrounds have no adventure. These photos are from the church's playground.

My favorite was this old merry-go-round. The design was such that big kids could push from the middle easily as a result the merry-go-round would go at tremendous speeds. Then all you had to do is jump on the bar for a ride.


The last time I saw this merry-go-round it was falling apart. Someone has fixed it!


Do you remember be dropped from the highest point of these old long tall see-saws?


I would guess this plank is the same one I used to stand on to pump up to the highest level of swinging this incredibly tall swingset would allow.


The tremendously scandalous statue that has lived for as long as I know outside the Mark V, the hotel we stayed at. Turns out it is an actual hand-carved replica of the orginal.


This is the limestone house. It seems that little is known about it - I've tried a bit of research and found nothing. But, everyone who has passed along the stretch of road where it stands knows it. It is a landmark of beauty and familiarity. Photos probably in the hundreds have been taken of it and paintings made. I've never been close to it. Now I have. I didn't walk into the pasture it stands in because of a huge sign that read "No Trespassing - Danger Falling Rock" but the fence of the adjacent pasture ran close to it so that is where I walked.


I lamented the wary nature of Western Meadowlarks while on my visit. They are flighty birds and won't sit around for you to walk up to them. I wished to take my own photograph of one sitting awkwardly on an osage orange fence-post head thrown back as he gave voice to his inverted trill of a song. As I walked the house I heard one quite close but never saw him; until I was working on my photos. There he sits a black speck on the top of the windmill.


I saw some dates and names that were from distant places and times. I didn't photograph those though.


I was surprised to discover how large and beautifully made the hosue was. From a distance it simply doesn't look that large. Close to the wreck one can see that at one time it was a gorgeous house with wonderful clean lines and detail.



I am afraid my attachment to tonal scale means that these aren't easy to see - but even the roof supports (the name escapes me) were beautiful.

home coming

I wait while she writes a check

her driveway is black, smooth again
the cracks filled, pits gone
we stand in the grass
her feet bare
my boots splattered with tar

I notice that her shorts
are embarrassingly threadbare
and smeared with paint

her t-shirt is shapeless
clinging to breasts that droop
as wearily as the seams at her neckline

the wind chimes tinkle
while I watch her
the sound doesn’t disappear
but keeps jangling inside my head

she hands over the check.

I pause, then choose to visit

the conversation twists in the breeze
like the clapper of the chimes
hanging just behind her head

the aura of suntan lotion hangs about her
but she is dried and shriveled
a sun-parched garden.

we talk a bit longer

I turn to leave

as I go, I think I hear her say
“I know where the wind lives”



I apologize for not posting this where it belongs - but it seems more part of my home coming thoughts than something that belongs elsewhere.

home coming

I have mixed feelings about memory. Not the kind of memory that recognizes we put the keys on the ledge and files it away for easy retrieval later. - I am concerned with memory and how it defines us as individuals. I believe memory is vital. God often had the Israelites build altars at points of significance so that they would remember and not forget.

Yet there is a danger in altars. If we aren't careful we worship the altar and translate it into an idol. Sometimes I feel like that is what is happening in today's society. We worship at the altar of memory - we tithe to the gods of scrapbooks and journals of self. We lose track of why we are remembering and only focus on how well we are doing it.

Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you! John Irving


And yet you can't go home without traveling the halls of memory. Revisiting your childhood means addressing memories. Memories that you never forget - but somehow never think about either. And here is the wierd thing about memory. Once you open the door and walk in - you can travel indefinitely, finding many things that you hadn't abought about in years. In fact, it is rather like getting lost. The present becomes the untouchable place and you wander around in a world that seems almost more tangible than reality because it is the world your mind made as it recorded your life. And another odd thing, sometimes it isn't the obvious things you remember. You know what I mean, certain memories pop up in the everyday landscape unbidden and regularly. The events of a date replay themselves surprisingly regularly, coming unbidden when the person seated across from you moves a certain way, or when you eat pizza, or...They are such a fixture, that you would imagine that the place where you sat in the car and talked one night would arouse a multitude of memories.


But no such thing happens, you park the car and gaze across the expansive landscape and remember when you were younger and you stopped there with your mom and stroked forget-me-nots and watch their leaves fold like half a dozen little prayers. And you wonder, can I grow forget-me-nots where I live so my daughters can stroke their leaves and watch them close?

When I think of Junior High, I don't see my classmates so much as I see weird moments. Like calling out to the janitor Rodger who I thought was a nice guy. Or the time we walked out to the football field and my best friend Trish suddenly sank to her waist into the earth. There was an abandoned well that the school was not aware of. I remember Trish's dad from before I ever knew Trish. He sold us our first ewe Sugar which we kept at my great-grandpa P's. I could tell you memories of that place...that are more fragrant and real than my memories of college. Perhaps it is because our senses are more aware when we are young.


There were Wednesday nights sitting in front of the school waiting for Mom to take me to Bible Study. The fat boy Robert would ask me to go out with him and I would say no. The conversation was on loop with an occasional pause when he asked "Why not?" and I would respond "You're fat." I dated him later after he moved away. He was still a big guy...but he had the virtue of not being from my school.

So here I ramble boring you with random memories and I don't care. It seems they need speaking as if perhaps writing them down will make that mark permanent. Ah, see there goes the idol of memory. Record it make it permanent without understanding why we were meant to remember.

The monster of memory has my grandma firmly in his grasp. She is in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's disease. He holds her memories in places she can't reach and hands them out piece meal so her language comes out like that of an infant and we are all strangers mis-mashed like Picasso's paintings. He must work strangeness to men's faces as she stares intensely and with definite dislike at all men except her brother who was the last person that she recognized frequently.


It is often at funerals that we are gathered to remember the life of the one who passed on. And people often remark at funerals that the will never forget the deceased. No one explains why. Is it a salve for the loneliness of missing a person who was part of our life? I think we often focus incorrectly at funerals. My grandfather was far from a saint but he had that right. He asked that there be no eulogy, he declined an honor guard and flag, he requested only the reading of scripture and a sermon on that scripture and no mention of his life. He had us focus on the one reason we ought to remember anything, Christ.


I suppose one of the reasons the call to build altars has passed is because the full testimony has been recorded in the Bible. What God has called us to remember and know has been written down for us and we pass it one to another. Altars eventually fail. Stones fall down and turn to dust. God's Word is infallible and will last in spite of our attempts to mark it with our own will because He lives forever and so He will protect it always. Perhaps that is why it is so hard to spend time in the Word. We want to believe that what we think matters more. We want our paltry scribblings to last.


Have you ever noticed the golden light in the happiest memories? It is the warm color of the setting sun and it has dust motes glinting in it.


Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these Susan B Anthony

more to come...