Henry came to me in a dream last night. He first appeared stretching his sinuous, strong body. Then he walked towards me with his long, graceful stride, offering his head and ears for a scratch and a soft feather stroke of my hand. He purred loudly the whole time. I thought it amazing Henry followed me to Maine from our mountaintop home in upstate New York. I couldn’t fathom how he did this. Then, I awoke.  It was three o’clock in the morning. Though only a dream, I sensed Henry had come to tell me something. I held Charlie, my sweet-faced little dog, close to my chest as if protecting him. There was a prescient, bitter-sweet quality to the dream. It was disturbing. So, I held on to Charlie until I fell back to sleep.

Henry was one of three outdoor cats I adopted four years earlier for my horse barn. They were feral kittens, born somewhere in the heavily wooded lands of the Catskill State Park. Their mother died while weaning them.  A woman discovered them on a trail hike, took them home, and nursed them into life and health until they were four months old.  However, she already had many cats and was eager to find another home for the three orphans. Since I needed good hunters for my horse barn and house, it was a perfect match of timing and circumstance.

The threesome comprised two sisters, Thelma a calico and Louise a tabby, and their brother Henry, an orange, brown-and-white tiger stripe. At four months of age, Henry was tall, already strapping, and elegantly handsome. Of the three, Henry’s nature was the sweetest and gentlest. And his eyes, even at this early age, reflected an ancient wisdom — a quiet knowing and acceptance. I watched him hunt and observed his muscular frame develop into something akin to a world-class athlete. As he matured his wisdom deepened, and I believed he knew more, cared more, and was finely tuned to the wildness and mystery of his natural world, as well as to us mere humans.

All three cats were well mannered even though they knew no other existence than the outdoors and all that nature offered, good and bad. Henry was often found sleeping in the sun behind the juniper bushes at the backside of my log cabin.  While his sisters played most of the day, he would sleep peacefully yet ever alert. The subtlest change in his environment would disrupt his snooze and cause him to immediately focus his senses so that he could discern whether a sound, rustle of a leaf, or flutter of some thing required his full attention. I took only two photos of Henry alone.  In one, he was stretched out like a Sphinx observing his world as he took shelter from a hot summer sun under an old pine bench, the resting-place for our family Buddha.

Henry Under The Buddha © 1999 Lee Anne Morgan

When I moved to Deer Isle off the coast of Maine, I had to leave my cats behind.  My friend, Sharon, was kind enough to adopt them.  It took a week to convince my brood to go into the kennel so they could be transported to their new home. My strategy was carefully designed around feeding them inside the kennel every day for seven days, each day pushing their food bowl further back into the confines of the kennel. The goal was to ease them into the enclosure until they were relaxed with the idea of being confined. Each day I stayed near the kennel while they ate so they would get used to my presence, something they were unaccustomed to at their mealtime.  And in the end, on the seventh day, they walked calmly into the kennel for their food. And I, with a weeping heart, softly closed its latch.  They did not stir, or look around, but continued to eat. When they finished their meal, they sat nestled together and looked at me.  They made no sounds and showed no signs of fear.  Sharon was generously ‘on call’ the whole week, waiting each evening for me to telephone and say, “It is done.” The cats showed amazing equanimity as they waited, enclosed for the first time in their lives, while Sharon drove from Woodstock to retrieve them.

That was the last time I saw Thelma, Louise, and Henry. I particularly remember Henry looking at me from inside the kennel while he snuggled with his sisters as if to say I don’t know what’s happening but I’ll take care of the girls and I trust you.  It’s okay.

Sharon called me just a few days ago to say that Henry had disappeared for more than a week. A cat had been killed on a road nearby her home. She was filled with fear and guilt. To soothe her anguish, I told her not to worry and that he was most likely on a long adventure. However, because of her revelatory news, and my prophetic dream, I came to fully accept that Henry was dead. As I began to absorb this sorrowful reality, my most vivid and haunting memory of Henry released itself from a tangle of emotions, like the unraveling of a tapestry woven from time. It was an early period in our history together. Henry was only six months old when he engaged in an experience, or perhaps ‘drama’ is more appropriate, that will remain etched in my mind forever.

The Year 1997 — The Capture and Kill

It was an uncommonly warm, sixty-degree February day — the day of Henry’s memorable hunt. Snow still prevailed though at the top of the mountain where my cabin stood. An indigo blue sky reigned over the land, showcasing the pristine snow with a bright, almost blinding sun, shining through leafless branches of tall oaks and wide hemlocks. This was a premature taste of spring and the ease of walking around outdoors without layers of clothing … jacket, sweater, scarf, gloves, and a wool hat … was unadulterated freedom.  A thick wool shirt was enough.

The cats and Charlie were happily investigating, running, and sunning themselves.  I took Charlie for a walk in the afternoon. When we returned, it was time to feed the cats. Thelma and Louise were there, on the doormat, waiting for their food. However, they were clearly distracted as they kept looking down towards the barn. Henry was not to be seen. I put the food out anyway, fairly certain he would eventually show up.

And he did. Henry, with great steadfastness climbed the steep, long stone steps to the front porch holding something large in his mouth. Within moments, I realized it was The Owl.  Our Owl-in-Residence! The Owl that made its home on our mountain and accompanied me on trail walks, flying slightly ahead of me, only to land on a favorite tree limb to wait until I caught up with him.

But, this catch of Henry’s was against the laws of nature and too impossible even for Henry to accomplish.  How could he possibly catch an owl? I had never heard of a cat catching an owl — in fact, quite the opposite.  But, no, it was The Owl that he dragged unto the snow-covered grass as he played with its limp body.  Then he left it and joined his sisters for their supper on the porch.  Soon after their canned meal was finished, I saw them in the snow, dancing their cat ballet over the prey. Surely their dance was ancient in its roots and a form of sacred celebration. They clawed, rolled, played and studied The Owl. They would stop for a while, clean themselves, and then resume their ritual dance.  Henry joined me on the porch during one of his breaks and looked at me with such pride.  We sat together, never too close, for Henry insisted that a respectful distance be maintained. With my light petting behind his ears, and the symphonic purr of Henry’s response, I said goodnight to him and went inside. I turned off the porch lights and wrestled with the mixed feelings I had regarding this killing.

Henry did what is his nature to do. Nevertheless, an owl, a ‘creatura’ associated with myth and magic. A ‘being’ that, believed by some, offers guidance, even wisdom, if we are open to seeing and hearing. Henry killed this Being. I was not angry with Henry, but I was shaken at the sight of him dancing his dance in preparation of what I believed would be the final mutilation of The Owl. It was sobering.

I tried to read before I went to sleep, but failed.  My mind was terribly active with thoughts, stuff, things — nothing and everything. I was concerned about the bloody remains of The Owl and whether Charlie would find it in the morning.  Surely he would, for nothing went unnoticed by him and I didn’t want him in that mess. I knew the cats would leave something of this killing, as they almost always did, and their catch was usually left half-eaten.  So, I resolved to have my friend Ralph, who was coming the following day for barn repairs, remove whatever was left of The Owl. Until then, I would walk Charlie on lead. With a plan in place, I finally fell asleep.

It rained all night, a heavy, pounding rain, so my sleep was fitful. I finally succumbed to waking up and entered my day.  It was 5 a.m. Apart from the persistent, hard rain, this was usually a quiet, still time. But this particular morning was neither quiet, nor still. I heard loud vocalizations from the cats — a rhythmic, chanting sound.   As I approached the front door, I had renewed thoughts of Henry’s killing on my mind, which conjured visions of Henry, Thelma, and Louise covered with The Owl’s innards as pieces of flesh hung from their fur, half dried and half still moist.  The Owl would be spread open in some ghoulish way, no longer identifiable as it was reduced to something raw and hideous. Its once-greatness would be totally demeaned and lost forever. I switched on the porch lights with some hesitancy, and looked through the beveled oval glass window of my cabin’s large, oak entrance door. Though I had heard the cats, they were not to be seen. In their stead, on the doormat, an offering was left for me: the remains of Henry’s hunt from the previous day. It was not the whole killing half-eaten, but something much more — something emanating from sorcery itself. It was not anything I imagined.

I knew that when cats caught feathered prey, they would pluck their killing first of its feathers and that those feathers would be, or could be, in a rather abstract, frenzied circle. What was presented looked deliberate and eerie. Selected feathers were aligned in a perfect circle. There was a precision to the way the feathers were placed: the large wing feathers formed the inner ring; smaller feathers comprised the second ring and, finally, the soft, fuzzy tail feathers created an ephemeral, delicate outer ring.  All of these feathered circles were in perfect order and each feather in its dedicated place of the pattern. At the core of the circle were the intestines of The Owl and a broken part of its beak. To the left and just outside of the circled pattern was one talon. The presentation of the offering looked like a kaleidoscope design without movement, as it remained so very still.  Even so, I sensed a living presence, or spirit, remained as I looked more closely at the moist, glistening intestines. I was frozen at the theatre of the sight.  Did the cats do this? Was it only Henry? Was there another, perhaps mystical, explanation for the perfection of the design? Was it The Owl’s last statement of wisdom and, if so, what was its message?  It was a phenomenon not meant for rationalization.

Today — Farewell

I will never understand how Henry managed this capture and killing. Yet, I will always remember him courageously dragging his magnificent prize up the stone steps for his sisters and me to see.  I can still recall the feel of his soft fur as I scratched his ears and head and the look in his amber eyes when he sat with me that evening. His gaze was steady and contemplative, and I could almost hear him say, “I did it.  I really did it.  I am brave, am I not?”  Yes, Henry, you were brave.

It is years later now since Henry was killed. However, he is a part of my heart and lives on deep within the folds of my memory. No matter where Henry had been or how challenging the hunt, when he returned home he greeted his sisters first, then Charlie if he was outside, and finally he would walk up to the doormat, or window ledge, and let me know he was home. His sweetness and gentleness as we sat together on the porch during soft summer rains was a rich experience filled with God’s grace. His indomitable presence and constancy helped form our bond. His noble spirit and gentlemanly ways deepened it. And, the essence of our bond endured enough for Henry to come to me in a dream — one night, eleven years ago — to bid his personal and final farewell.

Today as I write this story, I can still see him running the five hundred feet of dirt road from the horse barn to my cabin. With a feline stride that was long and deliberate, extending further his lean, muscular body, Henry held his head high as his spirit soared with the anticipation of the hunt.

My dear Henry, I grieve for you still, but I also celebrate your life and the touch of grace your presence created in mine. May your dreams be sweet and your noble spirit fly on God’s breath.  And may you always, always run wild and free.

Henry In Winter © 1999 Lee Anne Morgan

Walk tall as the trees; live strong as the mountains; be gentle as the spring winds;
keep the warmth of summer in your heart, and the Great Spirit will always be with you.
~ Old Native American Chant

 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. COPYRIGHT 2011

~ Meister Eckhart

It was an ordinary day. I was driving here and there doing errands, thinking and worrying about things that have not happened, may never happen … but being human I was determined to fret. At least for a short while. When I began this ordinary journey, the sky was as azure as the waters of Greece, yet I saw a dark mass far ahead on the horizon portending “weather.” This neither surprised nor concerned me. In upstate New York mountains, our summer thunderstorms can set upon us quickly with great fury, drama, and drenching rains. Then, they move on without so much as a ‘pardon me.’

I was on a small roadway between the villages of Saugerties and Catskill, when I saw this great plume of thick, black smoke. I pulled off to the side of the road expecting that fire trucks would be  barreling through any moment. Other cars passed this scene, yet no one stopped. I found this unbelievable. I grabbed my camera from the passenger seat of the car and while walking across the roadway, I attached my zoom lens. I could not get close enough to see where the smoke originated, or if it was spreading. But surely someone would arrive soon. No one did. As best as I could determine, the billowing, black smoke was emanating from a valley. I could not get to the edge of what appeared to be a cliff due to a thicket of tree roots, bushes, branches, and leaves. So, I stood roadside and took this shot trying to capture the threatening nature of this event.

Fire and Smoke © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

What struck me most about the abstraction of this image was the stark, bare stalk in the center. It appeared ossified as if a fire had already brushed it a long time ago. (Later I checked the local news and then the papers the following day. Not a word was mentioned about this event.)

I drove on into the dark mass of weather from Greene County into Columbia County. There I encountered several wonderful sites. The first of which was an old stone wall bordering a long dirt road entrance into what was, most likely, a Great House. Mist formed in a motionless atmosphere as often happens just before heavily laden clouds burst open.

Old Stone Wall © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Driving further along towards Chatham, NY, I came across a classic scene at this time of year. While the clouds were beginning to rumble in the distance with a low, soft thunder, I had enough time to capture the first rolled hay bales of this farm.

Hay Field No. 2 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Since the storm was about to burst, or I thought, I headed for home but made a last minute detour to one of my favorite places: the Brotherhood Winery vineyard overlooking the Hudson River. The scene was skillfully wrought with drama: the sun still remained on one side as the dark storm mass gathered its might on the other. I photographed the lush, rolling vines as this ‘happening’ of two weather systems converged over the vineyard. I took my shot and prayed that the lavender hues created by Nature would appear as I saw them. I believe they did, and with a touch more, for the background is black with the portending the storm.

Storm Over The Vineyard © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

I arrived home just as the skies roiled with thunder and lightening and the clouds finally gave birth to a down pour of rain that christened the land once again with moisture and sustenance. Yes, it was an ordinary day with extraordinary sights, sounds, and blessings. I had stopped fretting and thinking about things that were not of the moment. What a gift. While I never completed my errands, I did do what I was most inclined to do and the Great Author delivered what I needed.

Thank You.

Namasté.

My full-size images in this Journal are available on ArtSpan in “Land & Nature”.

Smaller-sized versions are available on Etsy.

what you choose to do with them is up to you.

~ Richard Bach

I have never known a period in my life when I could not see even a little of what was down the road. Yet today, and probably tomorrow with a series of tomorrows following, I cannot even see around the bend. I have adjusted to uncertainty, the absence of security, and accepting, rather than resisting, change and what is simply now for nothing remains the same from one moment to the next – and, nothing is certain. It is in the clinging to what I believe is reality that causes resistance and, ultimately, some sort of suffering. Yet, my so-called realities have been turned upside down and inside out. In order not to suffer but to learn and grow from these experiences, I have had to completely surrender to the unknown – what may, or may not, lie ahead.

Morning

I awake early these days. The music of the birds begins around 5:00 a.m. This is a magical hour for me as the sounds of nature – insects, birds, the rustling of tree tops as the dawn breezes make their entrance for the day – envelop me with a subtle soothing of  spirit. There is power in these moments and I realize that while quite small in the greatness of the Universe, I am, after all, a part of it.

I sit with my second cup of freshly brewed Assam tea, resting fully in this moment, the only moment I truly have. Yet, my mind wants to wander, project, ponder, plan, worry, dive into panic and fear, and … so much more. I invoke a focus on my breath observing the inhale, the exhale, again and again, bringing myself back to the moment, if only for a brief second.

Again and Again © 2006 Lee Anne Morgan. 

I recently returned to a deeper meditation practice due to the tumbling events in my life for I find it essential to my well-being that I stay in the present.

In taking on this practice, I have come to realize how much of the time my mind resides elsewhere other than in the now – the future, the past, reliving a conflict, or even painful times, all creating anxiety and fear. I chose the quote above from Richard Bach because it speaks to an accountability for the actions I have taken in my life, without blame or shame. I create most, if not all, of my realities and how I choose to react and interact with them determines my happiness, sorrow, peace, and equanimity. This was the Buddha’s great teaching and one that is not easily learned – at least for this writer.

So, how I choose to respond to, and cope with, what IS in my life – an attitude of love or anger, caring or indifference, compassion for myself or self-pity and regret, compassion or resentment towards others, love or envy, letting go or grasping, generosity or greed, forgiveness or retribution – are all choices available to me.

It helps me to stay in the present moment by giving full attention to the smallest details of my daily life. I practice my “practice” by trying to be awake to my thoughts, words, and deeds. I am discovering that the simplest of tasks can be sacred: the ceremony of brewing tea, the selection of a hand-thrown mug, watching the milk pour into the aromatic black essence, the first taste that, for me, vanquishes all doubts and fears, the subsequent sips that cool with time, and the final act of washing the beautiful mug with its exquisite celadon glaze so it can be neatly placed into its safe abode in my cabinet.Sacred Attention © 2006 Lee Anne Morgan. 

Samsara

For many years I was driven in my life, choosing ambition, perfectionism, and desire for material gain as primary goals and marks of achievement. The concepts of  surrender over control and mastery, humility instead of self-righteousness, and living simply enough so that some can simply live replacing desire and acquisition, were foreign to me. I made my life choices and today I live with the results of those actions. I do not make myself wrong. I did what I thought was right at the time. I do not lament as Magdalene did, for I have learned in this School of Life that we are human works-in-progress and on the ladder of evolution, still quite primitive.  I can only hope, perhaps strive, to do no harm to myself or any other living being when I speak, act, and think. Is this possible to achieve? I do not know. I believe it is worth the peace though that I feel when I walk in harmony with my soul. I believe it is a goal worthy of my sincere effort.

Lamentations of Magdalene © 2006 Lee Anne Morgan.

Ten Years Past

About ten summers ago, also a time of change in my life, while hiking high up in the Catskill Mountains, I came across a fresh water lake. The sun was high; the water crystal clear. I sat at the edge of the lake and debated whether or not to take a picture of the twigs and branches at the bottom that I saw so clearly through the pristine water. I looked into the water a long time before I took my camera in hand and shot straight through to the depths of the lake. What emerged as a final image was unexpected and it confirmed to me then, as it does now, that the unknown opens new pathways and new adventures and, if grace touches me, a beautiful, haunting image is awakened and brought forth.

Now

I made the decision a few years ago to simplify my life. This has been a long journey, mostly voluntary, and not one of sudden impulse. However, of late, life circumstances not of my choosing are closing certain chapters in my life. The details are not important for they will unfold and be what they will be. I recognize that I have no control over anything really, only my attitude towards these matters and how I treat others, including myself. I am learning to surrender to the moments that make up a minute, an hour, a day. So, not seeing down the road is not so bad or scary at all, but simply the cosmic perfection in its imperfection.

So, I sit, breathe, and offer gratitude for each hallowed moment.

Each Hallowed Moment © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan.

Namasté

A Postscript

The RiverWinds Gallery in Beacon, NY will be exhibiting more than 30 pieces of my work beginning June 11 – July 3. If you can join us for the Artist Reception on June 11 from 5p.m. to 8 p.m., please do! If not, feel free to stop in at another time for the Gallery is open six days a week. A special thank you to Linda, Mary Ann, and Virginia for providing this wonderful opportunity.

May 2010 – One Year Ago

It was a cold, rain-drenched day in May almost one year ago when I drove south from my home in Catskill, New York towards a little hamlet, Washingtonville. My journey was taking me to where the oldest winery in the United States resides. It is called Brotherhood. I was conflicted about doing a photo shoot on such a wet, dreary day, but my research told me that Brotherhood’s cellars were built in the 1800s and there were bottles of port, perhaps as old, still inhabiting their resting places on racks. So, I knew I would be indoors for most of the work I wanted to do and set about thinking how this all began, watching the rain increase in its intensity as I drove for the next hour.

This photo shoot was the beginning of a year-long project that Hudson Valley Wine Magazine was sponsoring. Nineteen artists, working in various mediums, were chosen to be ‘paired’ with one of the many, varied wineries of New York’s Hudson Valley Region. Each of us was to create two new works inspired by our respective winery culminating in a gala event and exhibit of Art & Wine at Lyndhurst, a National Historic Site in Tarrytown, New York in May 2011. I was honored to have this opportunity, but I had no idea as I finally approached Brotherhood how grateful I would be for the experience ahead.

Before I unpacked my camera equipment from the car, I scouted their cellars for lighting sources. They were, for the most part, dark with little-to-no natural light. Though I prefer using hand-held photography in natural light, making the process more organic for me, I knew when I saw the absence of effective lighting that I would need to use a tripod because of long exposure times. Using a flash was not an option for my personal taste.  I hauled my pairs of cameras and tripods down the steps into the cellars and left the pouring rain above. I finally took a breath and stopped to really see what I might be able to capture when I realized I had walked into another time and place with a treasure trove surrounding me.

The entrance room was the only one in which there was more than one light. With the  soft glow of  light on the cellars’ arched ceilings, an illusory quality emerged. I deliberately double exposed and then blurred this image as a means of creating the emotion I was experiencing – traveling back in time.

Entrance to Another Time © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

This room was set up as a small museum and contained tools made for wine pressing and corking by its original owner (name unknown) who was a cobbler by trade. The tools themselves are a form of sculpture. I used a macro lens on these large subjects for the old bricks and cobblestones were as mesmerizing as the room, tools, and  spirits that abound there.

Old Tool No. 2 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

I walked through the archway of the entrance room and found myself with only one light and six very old, carefully crafted eight-foot French oak casks.

Old French Oak Casks © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Walking through a narrow dark, damp hallway, I emerged to find a wall of glass and doors firmly shut. Old bottles stacked in racks dominated the room and they were encrusted with uncountable years of dust. I was Alice in that moment looking through a glass fortress. I did not have access to the room, but I took the photograph through the glass wondering if the smudges, scratches, and aging would add to, or diminish, the image.

Vintage © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

I realized I had spent several hours in the cellars. Though there was more I wanted to do, I knew I had captured most of what beckoned me. I packed my equipment and walked into a rain that had become torrential. I was soaked as I stepped into my car and turned on the heat, heading for hot coffee wherever it was and as fast as I could find it. And I did.

July and August 2010 – Nine Months Ago

While there is a small vineyard annexed to the winery, Brotherhood’s larger vineyard is just across the Rip Van Winkle Bridge in Columbia County and only ten minutes from my home. There is a long, narrow dirt road surrounded by woods that leads to the vineyard. On my first visit, I was stunned as the one-lane dirt road opened into this vast expanse of sun-drenched green: vines, trees, meadows – all overlooking the Hudson River. I was to learn that Olana, home of Frederick Church, one of the most acclaimed of the Hudson River School of Painters, overlooks the great meadow above the vineyard. The story goes that Church painted that very meadow from the south lawn of his home and perhaps the vineyard too since it was all meadow in the mid-1800s.

I did not photograph anything on my first visit for it was midday and the sun was high. I was concerned about glare. I returned several times to walk and observe the vines and the land in which they were tenderly cultivated and planted. I am not certain when the grapes actually began to appear on the vines. These are the very first I was able to photograph as one vine led to another and another … and into infinity.

Seeing Through The Vines © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

September and October 2010 – Six Months Ago

It was during September when I captured the color turning on some of the grapes. Each grape had a different palette. Each and every one. No two were alike. What a wondrous gift and blessing.

The Turning of Grapes © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Autumn was on its way by October and while the grapes were gone, leaves remained on the vines. The trees were still heavily leafed out as well. I realized that my strong love affair with this vineyard had so much to do with the grand center pathway leading from the bottom of the vineyard to the great meadow beyond its gates.

On an afternoon when a thunderstorm darkened the sky and played with the light as it danced among the rolling clouds, I stopped by the vineyard curious as to how “weather” was affecting the landscape I had come to honor and love.

Vineyard Pathway No. 2 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Every time I visited the vineyard I would walk up to the top, turn around, and look at the Hudson River and our soft-shouldered Catskill Mountains beyond. On one day, when the wind dominated our mountains with fierce gusts up to sixty miles per hour, I decided to make another, perhaps my last for the season, spontaneous visit to the vineyard. This time the wind just about knocked me off my feet and my camera out of my hands. However, I persevered to the top and for the first time did not turn around. There was a pair of grand, old weeping willows I had seen many times before, though not in the mood and energy of that day. They were at one with the ferocity of the wind as their branches lifted, rustled, and swayed in total cooperation with their environment and the moment. These two graceful willows, and where they stand, are nature’s monuments. Set high above, I believe they are the true gatekeepers of the vineyard.

Wind in the Willows © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

April, 3  2011 – Today

We are a little more than one month away from Lyndhurst and the Art & Wine gala. I must select two images for the exhibit and I believe I know which ones … and yet.

What a gratifying experience to ‘walk with time’ into the past and into the present. As an artist I could not ask for more. The Brotherhood Winery and its vineyard are both magical and mystical. The experience is not to be missed.

I want to thank the Brotherhood Winery (Colleen and Cesar), Hudson Valley Wine Magazine (Linda and Rob), the eighteen other artists, and all the participating wineries for making this adventure possible.

Please join me at Lyndhurst on May 20th and/or May 21st … if you are able

Click below for details

Interview with Lee Anne Morgan:

“Lee Anne Morgan Captures the Moment”

Before one of these storms, when I knew I would be house-bound for at least two days, possibly three, I stocked up on the usual staples of bread, milk, and basic food. As I was about to leave the supermarket, I spotted a long-stemmed rose bud. It was isolated from the others in the flower section as it stood in a single, cellophane wrapper. The rose bud was perfect, yet alone. Why had no one purchased this single beauty? I was thirsty for color around me and with the impending onslaught of bad weather, I realized I had to have this rose. I knew exactly what vase she would stand in and where I would place her in my cozy farmhouse.

The first day she remained a bud. The second day too. I observed her closely, scrutinizing her petals to see if they were beginning to show signs of unfolding to reveal all of her inner beauty. On the third day, she flirted with me and began to open. And, it was on this third day, while shut in the house watching rain transform into hazardous ice, that I remembered something John Daido Loori  (photographer and then-abbott of the Zen Mountain Monastery in Mt. Tremper, New York) wrote in his book, Zen and Creativity. He was a masterful photographer and spoke about the times he would conduct a photographic study of just one object, or place. He would photograph it over and over in all seasons and in all spectrums of light.

The rose was awakening and I realized this is what I must do. Not what I could do,  but must do. The camera was ready and so was I. Twenty-four hours and one hundred and twenty-two images later, shooting in both color and black and white, I came to rest on these two versions: her Awakening and when she evolved into Renoir’s Rose.

Awakening © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Once the rose fully blossomed, a translucent light surrounded her together with that still, quiet moment in time when I knew she was at her peak.

Renoir's Rose No.1 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Only one hour later, her petals wilted. Her life force, fragile beauty, and the joy she brought to me vanished. Yet, she remains in my heart and is still present on this page for anyone who reads it.

In memory of my mother, Helen, I dedicate these images.

Namasté

I watch for the glow of light that gleams in the growing earth and glistens in the sea and sky.

Grant me the grace of seeing this day. Grant me the grace of seeing.

~ a Celtic Benediction (excerpted) J. Philip Newell

January has brought the Hudson Valley Region of upstate New York several significant snow storms – more than in recent history. We shoveled, salted, plowed. We packed and stoked our wood stoves to stave off the bitter cold and wind chills that seeped into every fiber and bone of our bodies. Then it rained ice. Some called it sleet, or a “wintry mix”. I listened as it pelted my studio’s metal roof on and off throughout the day and then, once ensconced in front of my wood stove, I observed through my wide living room windows the  power lines and tree limbs yielding to the weight of layering ice. The tone of the day was restrained. Quiet. Except for the heavy sound of the ice rain.

The following morning I gingerly stepped onto my icy walkway, camera in hand, to my car. I packed every corner and small space in my wood stove for I knew I would be out for the day taking in the aftereffects of the snow and ice that created a winter wonder not unlike Camelot, or what I recalled from the movie’s opening scenes so very many years ago: Ice. Snow. Magic.

Chimney Working Hard © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

My attention was immediately caught by a crackling sound that came from everywhere. At first, I thought it was the snow shower that had just begun adding even more pristine quality to what already was quite remarkably pure. For everything my eyes could see was flawless: white, virginal, creating a scene of crystals hanging, clinging, and crackling – especially the trees. The glass trees. But more about these trees later.

I ventured onto the back roads, though not yet fully plowed, and found the world transformed into an architecture that can only belong to winter. I stopped the car and as I emerged I was confronted with an open field and a lone tree. No architect but nature could create something so perfect with the strength of its long, straight trunk and its slender branches reminiscent of a corps de ballet as they arched and extended, mostly upwards, into graceful positions.

Winter Architecture No.1 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Opposite the great, lone tree was the beginning of a heavily wooded area. Stanchioned black tree trunks supporting heavily ladened white, crystalized snow branches was yet another affirmation of my “movie memory” of  a Camelot winter.

Winter Architecture No.3 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

I wended my way through the trees while listening to the crackling of ice crystals and found one limb that required my macro lens. Out it came for these sylphlike icicles were not to be ignored for they were tiny and ephemeral.

Winter Architecture No.2 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Satisfied and thinking there was not much more I could really do, I decided to drive over the Rip Van Winkle Bridge into Columbia county. I have identified some private pathways and hideouts for my meanderings, especially around the Hudson River. On my way to the River, a bend in the path illuminated the extravaganza of snow, light, and dare I say, a touch of magic around the corner.

Hudson River Path © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

And magic there was! For when I climbed the pathway further, I came to a meadow with low-lying crystalized grasses and one tree. This tree did not have the elegance of the first, but it had a very special resident.

Redtail Hawk © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

I knew then that my Camelot theme was real. And, when I looked higher than where The Owl perched, my eyes saw the “house” where Frederick Church painted his renowned works.

"The House" © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Light was beginning to fade fast, so I started for home. When I arrived, I continued to hear the trees crackle. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could capture these magical trees. This image was taken as the sun’s last light of the day passed over the mountain, leaving just enough light to illume the amazing glitter on these trees of glass.

Trees of Glass © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

The harshness of the ice storm faded throughout the day as I observed nature’s artwork. I forgot about the shoveling, salt, and hauling wood into the house to feed the stove. I loved every sparkling piece of ice crystal, the stark, strong black tree trunks, the virginal snow blanketing the land, and the mystical owl who watched me for some time releasing the shutter of my camera. I think it is not mere coincidence that he showed me his profile. Not at all. I am so grateful for his guidance and patience. So very grateful to do what was given me to do.

B l e s s e d   B e.

I bundled up when the inches climbed to a foot or two and ventured outside to make snow angels. It was then that I heard, and still do, the sound of snow. It is quiet, subtle, soothing and creates a touch of magic. Falling snow gently burdens the limbs of trees, sketching outlines of ordinary things normally overlooked: telephone wires stretching the length of a street or a lone country road, the remains of a rock wall that once bordered a garden or stood as a marker to divide one farm from the other, the trim on an old cape house in a small New England village, or the cupola on a horse barn.

It was the mystery of the snow in the dark woods behind my house that called to me. With my childlike wonder, I would imagine all sorts of stories and fantasies: magical faeries and wizards, mystical white kindly wolves with emerald green eyes, and small furry creatures who could talk to me and I to them. And, I confess, I still believe these things when I relive those times as the sound of snow envelops me and there is nothing to disrupt this sacred, almost-silent, time and space  - the ever so soft snow falling on all that I can see and not see.

Snow Falling in Forest No.1 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

Snow Falling in Forest No. 2 © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

The Bend in the Road © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

My eye has always seen patterns, auras, and language in nature. Simple stalks of remnant weeds emerging from two feet of snow, tell me a story, radiate an aura, create a vision not necessarily obvious but nevertheless ever present.

Wolf in Snow Shadows © 2011 Lee Anne Morgan

More snow storms will surely arrive . Yet, there is that wondrous thrill of the first big snow of the season. Our hearts beat with excitement and for a brief while we are childlike again with huge round eyes conjuring all sorts of imaginations and journeys in our inner-life that nourish our soul.

“The only grace you can have is what you can imagine. If you cannot see it, then you will not have it.”

(Excerpted from Tony Morrison’s “Beloved”)

B L E S S E D   B E.

As the days grow shorter, the great wonder of nature gradually wraps us into darkness. Color slowly fades and then retires completely from the landscape. Just a week ago on a back road between Catskill and Saugerties, I found an old farmstead where the view is expansive: the rolling cloud formations of dark-to-light and back again performed a silent sonata and the remaining color appeared almost as mere memory. The man who first placed a camera in my hand when he saw this image said, “the Buddha is always with you Lee Anne.” I did not know at first what he meant so I looked again at the image. Whether it is the Buddha, Higher Power, the Great Spirit, God or Goddess … there is some presence that resides in this landscape.

The Presence © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

My Thanksgiving passed with quietude and simplicity. I gave gratitude for the blessings in my life: the bounty of beauty, health, well-being, good friends, the smiles on peoples’ faces, the God-given birthright of goodness in the human heart, the beloved animals who touch our souls, my family, their families, and more and more and more.

THE BLESSING

Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us, so be swift to love, swifter still to forgive, make haste to be kind.

May your blessings be manyfold and always, always seek out and observe the mystery, magic, and wonder that abounds even in the bare trees and colorless landscapes. You might just spot a bright red cardinal sitting on a brown, leafless branch illuminating that limb and your world with grace.

The photography projects I had on the back burner while in Maine were, of course, waiting for me. One is a year-long Art + Wine Celebration sponsored by Hudson Valley Wine Magazine www.hudsonvalleyartandwine.com. Nineteen Hudson Valley artists have been paired with twelve specific wineries in our region to create, in whatever medium is theirs, two works for a grand gala in May 2011. The Brotherhood Winery and Vineyard is my partner in this endeavor and I consider myself very fortunate. Not only is Brotherhood the oldest winery in the United States with its ‘otherworldly’ cellars that date back to the 1800s, but its vineyards overlook the Catskill Mountains and Hudson River – views considered by many to be unequaled.

It rained steadily for what seemed more than a week after my arrival home. I finally took to the road on a drizzly morning and drove to Columbia County with the promise that the clouds would depart and allow some rays of sun to spread across our landscape and into our bones. Just as clouds were abandoning their seemingly relentless grip on our sky, wind gusts of more than thirty miles per hour accompanied the changing weather. This “collaboration” created amazing hues, shadows, and drama, especially on one of Columbia County’s rolling hillsides. Color, no color. Existing one moment; changing the next.

As the Sun Broke Through © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

I drove towards the Vineyard through this convergence of light, shadows, and changing color but when I arrived, the Catskill Mountains remained overcast. However, while I hoped for sun and the surprise of an unknown drama, I could not resist this gossamer view.

As the Hudson River Flows © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

At the top of the Vineyard is a meadow. In that meadow stand two willow trees. This meadow is one that Frederic Church painted from the south lawn of his home, Olana. The angle at which my camera was focused shows young Riesling vines and their remaining leaves concede to the wind’s force. The wind was strong enough so that it was difficult to hold on to my camera. And, a tripod would have been swept away. I was firm in my resolve though to capture, albeit from the opposite perspective of Church’s paintings, the two willows and some of the tender vines. And, forgive me, but I could not resist the title …

"Wind in the Willows" (Brotherhood Vineyard) © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

I turned around to find that the conspiracy of the week’s endless rain, the day’s forceful wind, and the persistent sun punching through the clouds, brought a peak of autumnal color to our mountains. These are views of our “blue” Catskill mountains with their soft, sensuous Rubenesque shapes reaching as far as Ulster County, twenty or thirty miles away, perhaps more.

Catskill Mountain View No.1 © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

Catskill Mountain View No.2 © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

I began my day in gray drizzle with almost a monochromatic landscape. It concluded with the sun clearing out the dark shades and shadows that prevailed all week, exposing the culmination of nature at work: autumn in the Hudson Valley.

More to come.

Namasté

The brilliant sun and dazzling, deep blue waters so clear that they reflected the sky and every single thing in close proximity, prevailed throughout the day as I drove south through Maine’s small coastal towns: Bucksport, Searsport, Belfast, Camden, Damariscotta (where I consumed a giant  cup of freshly roasted and ground Sumatra coffee plus one of their world-famous sticky buns just out of the oven… oh my), Wiscasset and more, until I reached Kennebunkport. I settled into the motel I stayed at two weeks ago and knew I was really, really tired. Every bone ached and I barely made it to dinner, where I almost fell asleep at the table. My camera never left its bag all day. I watched a movie, “The Green Mile”, and was reminded how Stephen King can be a very fine, elegant writer and, then, fell fast asleep. It was eight o’clock.

I was up early to pack and drive to Ocean Shore Drive, which is where the very wealthy live, the waves pummel the ragged shore line, and one sees the sun rise and set. I was there for the sunrise and I knew no one else would be around that early EXCEPT for an artist with his easel painting with great deliberation and fervor. He had a bumper sticker on the back of his struck, which said Artist for rent or sale. I loved it but didn’t disturb him as I carved out my own space much different from the view he was working on.

The sunrise, of course, was the first image. Sunrises and sunsets are irresistible to artists. That’s why we all do them. Why? They are miracles of nature, no two are alike, and they reach our souls like well-intentioned magic wands to heal and soothe.

Sunrise, Kennebunkport, Maine © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

There was a house on the hill with Maine’s classic rugged coast line at its feet overlooking the seemingly boundless ocean. I had never noticed it in all the years I passed through Kennebunkport. This morning, it looked haunted yet beautiful in the first glimmer of morning light.

House on the Hill, Kennebunkpport, Maine © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

House on the Hill No. 1 © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

Grasses, limbs, twigs captivate me. They are are simple, unique, and are the ethos, the very bones, of nature. This was my last photograph in Maine.

The Grasses © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

I said my goodbyes to the waitresses at ALL DAY BREAKFAST where I ate when I drove through Kennebunkport two weeks ago. I drove home making only one stop. Walking into one’s home after several weeks away, neglected yet familiar, stirred many emotions, not the least of which was a mild feeling of panic at all the unpacking I had to do, the gathering of food, the making of it … these simple things felt overwhelming for a few moments. But I summoned my will and strength to do what needed to be done. I heard the furnace pop on even though the thermostat was set at 55 degrees. So, I started loading wood in the house to build a fire in the wood stove, which comforted me as it warmed the house. The fire was a homecoming and I was finally able to renew “old conversations” as I investigated the corners, the shadows, the warmth, the light of my home.

Home, Sunday © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

Home Again © 2010 Lee Anne Morgan

Thank you all for being there as my witnesses to this recent adventure. As always, when I write these chronicles, I feel each of you standing with me. This is a blessing and I say this with the deepest gratitude in my heart.

Namasté.