It’s holy this evening. The golden light, anointing.
And, I am about worship, as I softly walk the yard, Canon in hand.
I feel through my shutter tonight; sensing beauty and meaning and God, but I am at a loss for words.
I see, feel, smell, touch; I walk slowly in this sacred space, but metaphors and meaning elude. So, I work with angles and focus and light and depth of field, as best I can, attempting to package beauty into pixels.
I marvel at a juvenile praying mantis.
I crush herbs between thumb and forefinger just for the joy of their pungency.
I ruffle my dog’s ears.
You see, I am finding God in burnished sour cherries, in hot-pink spirea, in cream-and-orange fur.
And, later, as we all ride out to the pond on my parents’ farm, I leave the camera behind, but I keep the camera eyes.
I frame shots with the naked eye.
I squat down with my three-year-old son, viewing my daughters and mom on the dock on the other side of the pond, fishing, through the tasseled grasses.
I point out tiny wildflowers in purple, white and pink, mere centimeters high.
I look up at the fading blue sky and see a cross, slung at an angle — the junction of two puffy white jet trails.