Have you read or heard any news lately?
Yeah. Don't bother. It's mostly bad.
What was once considered decent -- treasured, even -- is now routinely demonized.
What was once deemed degrading is now ritually celebrated.
God help us.
I find that the more the earth dismays, the more the clouds -- God's faithful creation -- fascinate.
My eyes are pulled upward daily. I am looking for particularly expressive clouds.
Wispy noncommittal cotton-pulls serve their purpose I suppose and they are appreciated for their contribution, but I crave cloudy drama.
If it's not going to be the blazing azure and towering piles of blinding white peculiar to hot summer, I'd just as soon it be gray hordes dropping frog-strangling rain outside my window.
Extremes.
One of my daily frustrations (and I don't have that many, really) is seeing clouds and either not having my camera handy or not being in a place where I can take their picture and do them justice.
The long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,
Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good --
Thy fitful sunshine minutes coming, going,
As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood --
All shall be mine!
So I simply wing it. I don't reckon I had to spell that out for you.
As often as not, I'm standing in my own yard, squinting, making a point to avoid rooflines and satellite dishes.
I allow tree branches in. Also I like power lines in a cloud portrait.
Sometimes I take pictures of clouds while riding down the road.
Mostly as a passenger. With my phone. Cloud selfies.
No rehearsal. No encore. The Almighty as impresario of these performances is matchless creative genius wedded to immutable protocol.
Invariably I marvel at the way the clouds drift, rarely hurried, coming together, splitting again, making shapes, framing ideas, creating mind-blowing dazzle in their dance with the sun and one another.
Constantly moving so that you must be quick if you are to capture a seconds-long collaboration that will never be repeated.
They're just like life: they catch at the breath. Pay attention. Our existence is like a vapor, even more brief than a cloud picture, no matter how vivid, how seemingly permanent.
Look up and enjoy.
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The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven --
All's right with the world!
= Robert Browning =
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Happy Friday ~ Happy Weekend
