Enjoying nature and photography.
I guess I missed my 3rd blog anniversary earlier this year. I also missed my 200th blog post (it was this one six posts ago). And in general, I don’t like milestones all that much. They represent not only the beginning of something new, but also the end of a chapter. And this entails reflection, which I often struggle with. But today I will try to make an exception. Without contemplation, I will simply let another milestone happen.
77 760 000 heart beats of a robin, 39 340 000 fallen leaves on the island dam, 9 072 000 heart beats for me, 246 000 migratory birds at lake constance, 17 300 people for democracy, 2398 lines of code, 830 kilometers on the bike, 462 hours of work, 91 sunrises, 35 bouldering sessions, and three full moons.
While we experienced the longest summer last year, from autumn to early spring felt like a single heartbeat. Is this a glimpse of the future?
Wind whistles harshly from afar, night settles gently, au revoir dear Portugal, dear distant star, each day filled up my memoir with fragments of divided beams, with rock-formations, quite bizarre, with ocean waves and short-lived streams of water flowing as in dreams, a never ending love, it seems, another round, the earth gets drowned, and in the distant is unbound a nightjar calling out his sound; sweet memories still float around.
In most places the twenty-four hours of a day are divided into day and night. In midst a lake there seem to be three phases instead: Fog, sun, and night. And the difference between fog and sun is no less than between day and night. The fog transforms every part of nature: Birds extend their sleep and wait for the sun to arrive; plants are cautious and don’t open up; all the tiny cobwebs are suddenly visible – tiny strings beaded with water pearls. A wet and moist world which is calm and peaceful. Photographers love fog. I love fog.
A tempting shimmer, often bright and sometimes dimmer, tiny twinkles, shiny flickers, mighty seas of jolly glimmer, gently waving in the wind, often aligned, yet intertwined, thin blades on fire, in shades refined, ensnare the mind, tether the eyes, mankind inclined to stay right here, witness the rustling, bustling weeds, small beads pinned by the sun, a moment passes, all is gone.
A little island in the south, well-known by many, word of mouth does travel far. And bizarre houses out of glass are stuffed with greens, do grace the place – in midst the lake – en masse.
Whirling through the empty space, to chase the dream to leave a trace, we lose the reference at times of what's important, how to pace our lives, to live for us, not for archives.
Punkt im Dunkeln