Saguaro Morning In Colored Pencil — Image by kenne
The mountains hold the background in cool blues and violets, while the sunrise burns softly at their edges. In the foreground, the saguaros stand rooted and calm, their forms rendered in layered greens and ochres. The whole image feels suspended between night and day— between observation and memory.
In the wide austerity of the Sonoran Desert even weeds should have some dignity. But cockleburs— they cling, they crowd, they conquer without grace. I admire their tenacity, then curse it, then carefully walk by.
Old Farm Junk By a Shad in Willowsprings, AZ — Painting by kenne
The shed door sighs open, its hinges trembling with a worn vibrato— a reed instrument fashioned from stubborn wood and time.
That wavering note brushes my chest, and something inside loosens, answers.
I step into the dim interior where shadows keep company with the tools no longer needed, and I feel the strange comfort of being admitted again to the places I’ve outgrown.
When given a gift, the only appropriate response is gratefulness. Life is a gift. Each day is filled with blessings — just by our presence, we can express our gratitude.
I’m grateful I can spend time in nature capturing its many beautiful moments. Still, for many, it is easy to miss the beauty of nature. Many do not have the opportunity to spend time out in nature. However, through Louie Schwartzberg’s time-lapse photography, we can experience the stunning beauty of nature. (See Moving Art by Louie Schwartzberg)
Louie Schwartzberg is an award-winning cinematographer, director, and producer whose notable career spans more than three decades, providing breathtaking imagery for feature films, television shows, documentaries, and commercials.
The following video is a TEDx San Fransisco presentation, which includes his short film on Gratitude and Happiness, reminding us of the precious gift of life, and the beauty all around us.
November Days, We Spent More Time Inside — Image by kenne
. . . It is not the walls, but what the walls remember— voices layered like dust, the scent of bread, a name almost spoken.
We wander far to return to what was waiting in silence, a stillness that is neither beginning nor end, but the turning point where time folds back on itself and becomes familiar.
“Come in, she said I’ll give shelter from the storm.”
That old house on Decatur— it doesn’t stand, it sways.
The shutters keep time with the sax that drifts up from the corner bar, and the porch boards hum when the bass walks slow.
You can feel the brick loosen, just enough to breathe, just enough to remember what it meant to move with grace.
There’s a trumpet caught in the rafters, a whisper of silk on the banister, and the ghosts of every hot night press their hands to the walls like lovers keeping rhythm.
The house leans—not from age, but from music— as if the whole damn structure had learned how to swing.
