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.
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.
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:
Copyright 2022 Lyn Horton
A few weeks ago, I was talking on the phone with a female friend and former neighbor, who lives in the town in which I used to live, for forty-two years.
I have written so many times in so many places about the move that I made from the country to the city that I should be wearing out the subject by now.
But the trauma of the change lives beneath my skin.
The subject of our phone conversation mostly concerned how distant I feel from my son and how he has assured me that I am not alone.
The weather outside on that day produced grey skies and chilly temperatures for April.
Spring is supposed to be springing. One can tell that in some places, it has been warm enough to bring up the daffodils. But that is about it. It is the end of April now. At some point, the heat will be so hot that I will have to turn on the air conditioner.
I want the sun. I want the sun to guide me. Not only in time but in hope.
The phone conversation ended after an hour with instructions from my friend, who is also a dedicated Mother. She said: Take a walk, Lyn.
And I did and I discovered this beautiful tree, its branches defined clearly by the white sky.
