Retrieving My Balance

Climbing over rocks, going up hill, stepping on stones in the water to get to a rock to sit on takes practice. 

I am out of practice. 

It has been years since I have hiked where there is a brook, a river, rocks, the trees, and the breeze. 

My balance is off. 

I twist my body up needlessly when I am trying to ascend uneven terrain because I do not trust myself to stay upright. 

All the words that are out there about being in nature to restore yourself are true. At least for me. 

I used to go alone. I stopped. 

Now I go with someone who knows how to traverse the trails, and brings my attention to things I might miss. 

We actually do that for each other: the missing part. The seeing part. The appreciation part. 

I am not making this up. 

 

I am taking pictures again like I used to. Creating a mental compendium of forms and references.

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 water 7

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 looking up 3

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 water 1

Gardner State Park, June 7, 2026 trees and river

No one can see me better than the person who accompanies me. 

That is true now.

 

And it will be true tomorrow.

copyright 2026 Lyn Horton

Too Long

A question I ask myself often is why have I stopped going into the woods and absorbing all of the smells, sounds, and sights of beauty? The story is too long. But the short of it is I live in this little one-floor condo into which I have somehow boxed myself. Everything I own is within reach, although to be honest, there is a lot of art I cannot find no matter how much time I take looking. Within the past two days, I have been so tired, I can hardly keep my eyes open. The energy I expended planting what few flowers I have to plant, spreading mulch, and then, on the third day, cleaning my abode, must have been the same amount of energy I put out running a race. But, recently, the friend with whom I explored the woods before years ago, re-entered my life and now I have a companion who can accompany me on my walks. I have tried it alone, but it was into places that I knew so well that I felt as though I was already in the company of someone. Aloneness describes more than a physical situation. Aloneness becomes a state of mind.

Tell me how much I see. Tell me how much anxiety is relieved from my being.

As the water moves, so do the invisible pulsations of my brain. I am desirous of being the water. Of embracing the water in the life of its own but on which so much depends.

The pictures identify my longing for being in my environment. I just don't mean standing there; I mean disappearing into it. Maybe that day will come all too soon. When I remember my life in the woods, the mental images are so vivid. I can even remember being in the places where I took the pictures. And the events surrounding coming to and leaving the water.

Tell me you love me and I will return. If not in the steps coming toward you, but in the emotions thinking about you.

- May 25, 2026

Back to the Woods and Water, Easter, 2023

So far, having moved my residence from a small town to a small city forty minutes away by car has presented no problems. Yet because life unfolds the way it does, issues crop up when least expected and the world implodes. Thankfully winter has receded and the ice is gone. I can go where I please and walk and hike without cleats on the bottom of my shoes. To find solace, I seek the woods and the water, even if it trickles. At the beginning of spring, water tends to flow more fully and visibly than in the depths of summer. The virgin green of spring has yet to arrive. It is as though everything is slowly waking up. But a day will come when suddenly the leaves on the trees will have unfolded and the bulbs will have bloomed to face the heat of the sun. Photos copyright 2023 Lyn Horton

In Oregon in 2022

Years have passed since I have seen my son in Oregon. 

Certainly not during Covid, which time included moving from Worthington to North Adams, MA.

This year was special because my son was married in a beautiful small ceremony in a community park on a glorious sunny fall day.

The following photographs were taken when my son took me on a hike at Tumalo Falls and a walk along the Deschutes River.

Away Too Long

Because I am aging, my body needs longer to recover from physical activity. And since July of this year, I have been too riveted to my new living situation to leave it on Sundays. But yesterday was an exception. 

Not much rain has come down these last few months, so I have believed that where I would go or where I would want to go, no water would be flowing in streams, over the rocks, and or cascade in a waterfall. But, in this instance, I was wrong.

We need water in our bodies and in our lives. No debate can be had on that subject.

Just the sound of it flowing makes a difference to me. As it does for many.  Water flowing equates with time. As water flows, so do the minutes of dwelling on the appreciation of who we are on the planet and realizing how blessed we are when we are out of harm's way. 

We are witnessing vast and severe changes to the earth. We must preserve and persevere with the momentum of caring for it, stabilizing the huge swings in climate, and letting our voices be heard. 

Cascades Trail, North Adams, MA

photo copyright 2022 Lyn Horton

Returning to The Gorge, July 27, 2022

It was the middle of the week. A heat wave had blistered the region where I live so much so that I did not want to go outside. Miraculously, the heat broke with a rainstorm. And pleasant days ensued. Wednesday was one of them.

I had made plans to pick up a piece of art made on canvas whose edges were finished by a seamstress who lives in the town down the street from the house where I used to live.  Because the drive is forty minutes away and because I usually exercise on Wednesday, I thought to take a hike by the Westfield River which I had not done in nearly two years.

Hardly any cars were parked in the lot in this state-preserved area. That I appreciated. My history with this hiking/walking area is long. It has been a place of solace for well over a decade. Seems as though it should have been for a longer period of time. I associate it with the person for which this blog was created so we both could publish photographs. Now that he is long gone, this blog has become a platform for my photographs of this place as I tread on the trail. Wearing my gorgeous, comfortable gray and orange hiking boots. And my black full-of-pockets trail pants. And compression top.

This Wednesday, I took my good camera. 

The camera on the phone isn't good enough sometimes.

Poetry is in the imagery. All twelve lines of it.

Except for these lines in words:

Embarking on my three-mile walk

I could not hear the rushing of the river 

Below down the steep embankment.

The trail had been leveled off with packed sand

Hiding the hundreds of rocks exposed by erosion.

The walking was less one of avoiding the rocks 

And more of being able to look around without tripping.

The water was so low

An island of wildflowers and grasses 

Raised itself in the middle of the river.

At the halfway point

I sat on the water's edge

For a while 

Across from the island

Underneath drooping branches 

Of a birch tree.

A warm breeze surprisingly blew

Across the river

And the brilliant green leaves 

Attached to the low-hung branches

Gently kissed the lens of my camera.

Blessed by the wonder

I witnessed and sensed

I lifted myself up 

On to my feet 

And began climbing 

To the trail

On the way

To

The short trek

Home.

Copyright 2022 Lyn Horton