dream big

dream big
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Kids today have everything handed to them on a silver platter. They're so spoiled that it is quite difficult to get them to dream big. "I am dreaming big!" they say, "what do you know about being a kid anyway?"
Yeah yeah yeah, all dreams seem big when you're 6 years old and 3 feet tall. You dream of getting your own glass of water. You dream of retrieving your Eggo® from the toaster all by yourself. You dream of driving a big luxurious car.
But you grow a little bit and realize those dreams weren't such a big deal. You're 5 feet tall and you ask dad for a drink of water, you call for your brother to bring you your Eggo®.
You thought there'd be room for a hot tub in your dream car. Maybe a dance floor. Everything seems smaller when you grow up.

friend of my soul

friend of my soul
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Just before dusk last night, thick, fluffly, black clouds rolled into town. At first they merely spotted the sky, leaving large swaths of blue, and bright crepuscular rays. The anniversary half moon stood directly overhead in the shrinking blue. Soon, the entire sky was enshrouded in the thickness like a blanket, under which, the warm sunset shone it colors. The sun went down and the cloud curtain closed.
After dinner, there was no harvest moon to shine its nostalgia, memories and sentimental sweetness down on us. We walk from the restaurant to the car forced into the moment under the hidden moon. After 21 years, all we’ve got is now. We stand at mid-sky, and head west. At times, the sky will be clear, and everyone in our sphere will watch us traverse the firmament. Sometimes the sky will be cloudy, and we’ll be unseen, but moving along nonetheless. The sky will clear again, and we’ll be in a different location than we were, but will have moved there in secret.
You can see the expressions of our love, but you can’t see our love. You can observe the individuals and couple we’ve become, but you can’t know the intimate glories, the struggles, the construction and deconstruction that has had to happen in each of our lives to form us as one flesh. When you see a beautiful vista, it may not be evident that there was once a castle wall blocking the view. When you see a beautiful, ivy-covered fence, it may not be evident against what dangers it defends. You may not see the love and care that were needed by four hands and two hearts to build it so gently, fragile and strong.
To reach the depths of a soul, walls must be crumbled, wounds must be healed, rocky paths must be smoothed. Often, one has to tunnel through rock and dirt, to reach a secret garden that desperately needs tending. Enormous amounts of trust are required to allow someone to enter these areas. Behind our fortresses, there are scary, ugly things that we’ve hidden even from ourselves. But there are also joys and beauties unimaginable.


When this night is over, we can watch the sky clear, and stand facing east waiting for the waxing moon to rise. We can watch it climb and remember. But our moon has risen, babe. We’re high in the sky, We can even remember the clouds, for though at times they obscured our love from one another, at other times, they swaddled us, brought us together, caused us to find refuge in one another.
If we are so blessed, perhaps we look west to many years before our setting. Let’s continue to wax and shine a light to the moons rising behind us.

autumn blue

autumn blue
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

as the sun gets ready to cross the equator this weekend and slide us into autumn, it's changing angle is beginning to color those October blue skies.
As I went out this morning and floated into the blue, I thought about Molly's question a couple years ago. "Dad, wonder how God knew that green would look so good with blue?"
I also thought about long lazy afternoons under these skies and turning leaves with Allison, and felt quite lonely for a moment. So I thought it would be appropriate to compose a cheesy poem for her. As I climbed into the truck, I spoke these cheese-filled words into the voice memo on my cell phone:

The sky is turning autumn blue
Oh my! what a wondrous hue
the only thing I want to do -
is sit beneath it now with you

lamentation

lamentation
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Far too much social and cultural commentary is hypothetical and based on theory, bias, and fiction. Many pop musicians of all genres seem to search for expression of an identity they are searching for. "Maybe if I express this identity, that will be who I am." Many Christian musicians sing of theoretical joy they've never experienced, many punk/hardcore bands sing of ostracism they'd never experienced until they decided to express it, many rap artists sing of life and context of which they have no first hand knowledge.
It is terribly refreshing to hear an important message brought by someone whose story it actually is.
All of life is a Cinderella story. Far too many of us find our identity in the lamentable lie that the slipper doesn't fit. But it's a lie. There are enough glass slippers to go around and they are one-size-fits-all. We can all slip one on and stand up and walk.

swaddled

swaddled
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

I've been watching for the neonatal harvest moon for 3 days now, but alas, it has kept hidden behind the clouds.
Even tonight, I had to stare at her crib for quite awhile before I caught a break in the clouds.
The harvest moon plays an important role in Allison's and my celebration of our wedding anniversary. It stretches our celebration beyond a day into a month of waxing and waning. Each year, our anniversary arrives at a slightly different phase of the harvest moon. This is meaningful to me. It tweaks my perspective, affects the way I look backward through 21 years,
and forward through life together.
The harvest moon is a metaphor, it is a symbol to which we both looked when we couldn't be together - a central, common connector that represents the glue that binds us.
I am a very romantic guy. Images, words and melodies write the story in which I play a role. I work through poetic days, I sit under poetic night skies, and I hear music on the breeze.

So please please forgive my schmaltz during the week that closes our 21st year of marriage.

change

change
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

It’s 9:15am on Saturday morning. I’ve been up for over 3 and a half hours and have already had a full day. I’ve another full day this afternoon. I’ve been running taxi service for the kids since 6:30am and have already been grocery shopping. I rolled out of bed in the pre-dawn to take Jack to school to catch the cross-country bus. This, of course, is a blessing because I got to see Pleiades, Orion and unnaturally bright Venus. When I came home from dropping Jack and getting groceries, I made coffee and relaxed a moment before delivering Molly.
Molly and I were a few minutes early to meet her carpool partner, so we sat in a parking lot and waited. As we sat there and listened together to the radio, a pretty woman walked around the truck and to my window. She said, “Hi! My name is Tricia, and I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. We like to go to neighborhoods and knock on doors – you’ve probably had us knock on your door – but people see us coming and try to avoid us or hide, so we come to parking lots and lie in wait and pounce on unsuspecting people.”
I kid you not! That is what she said. I felt that after such a brilliant opening line, I owed it to her to accept her Watchtower and pamphlet teaching me how to be a better parent.
Molly had the radio on “her” station, which was playing the “top 40”. After Tricia left, we were treated to a glorious in-studio interview with Fifty Cent, or 50 cent, or $.50, or however it is he spells his name. Not many people have names containing Arabic Numbers anymore. I guess it’s handy if you want to use your own name for your alpha-numeric password or PIN. Maybe I should change my name to Buck twenty-five, or buck and a quarter, or $1.25 – I haven’t decided how to spell it yet, I guess that depends on my PIN number. I’ve always wondered how long until our names and SS# would be one and the same.
But I digress…
What I really wanted to share with you about the interview with Fifty Cent, or 50 cent, or $.50, or however it is he spells his name, was this wonderful quote, delivered when Ryan Seacrest asked him about his wearing a bullet-proof vest. “Have you been receiving threat?”
“Well you know, the envy breeds jealousy.

This afternoon I’m scheduled to take Jack downtown to the Flyleaf concert. Perhaps we’ll find more insight and profundity.

stone

stone
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Sometimes the beauty of a stone can cause it to seem softer, more welcoming and receiving than it actually is. Sometimes the hardness of a stone can make it seem hopeless and impenetrable, despite it’s beauty and strength. It takes patience and understanding to look through the beauty and at the nature of the hardness to find that the stone is actually quite porous. It is not always easy to learn that perseverance over time will find the object welcoming, accepting, even cherishing.
Fortunately, the perseverance required to give to the hard stone is not lost on the receiver. Gratitude is born of the nourishment and knowledge of the challenge that was overcome in its giving.
Once the stone has received, its very hardness and strength will help protect what has been absorbed. It’s beauty will make it more attractive to other beautiful, but hard stones, and it will better understand the challenge faced in sharing what it has been given.

sitting

sitting
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Ironically, or perhaps, serendipitously, after I’d finished writing the words that I posted last, a man came down the path, and stopped to talk to me. He saw my computer and camera and declared, “well that’s one way to do it!” I looked up and saw a man in his mid-70s, completely dressed in khaki from head to foot, with a monopod slung over his shoulder. Attached to the end of his monopod was a Canon 5D, and attached to his lips was a half-burned cigarette. He had several lens cases of various sizes slung off his shoulders.
But true to what I believe is probably a good indication of photographic purpose (because it is so like motorcycling), we didn’t talk about gear, we talked about this morning’s photo subject – the Congaree Swamp.
John Paul, as he was named, told me that he’d grown up in the swamp. Until 1960, he said, his father was entirely swamp dependent. He had raised and supported his family by hunting and trapping in the Congaree. John literally knew the swamp as his backyard. He talked about places along the creeks and river using trees and fallen log jams as landmarks as if they were road signs.
The topic of his talk with me was learning to be a part of the swamp – to behave as if you belong to it. He shared insight to animal behavior, and seeing wildlife. He talked about learning and discovering the swamp. But it all boiled down, he said, “to finding a nice spot, sitting down and letting the swamp come to you.” “When you feel you’ve always got to be moving, and looking, you end up scaring away half the things you want to see, and completely miss the other half. If you sit and let it find you, you miss very little. You can experience the sounds, the wildlife, the trees, the smells.”
Anyway, I thought it was really cool, that he came along, and as if he knew what I’d been writing, proceeded to affirm everything I’d just written. So take John Paul’s advice, follow your path, but from time to time, sit and let the beauty come to you.

basking

seeker
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

It’s the time when worshippers gather. I, though, am sitting on a Cypress root that is jutting out from the bank of Cedar Creek, which flows into the Congaree river. The Cypress trees and their roots and knees are reflecting in the lazy water. The sun is moving higher and sending its stray rays at increasingly steeper angles down through one of the highest canopies in the world splashing light on the wildflowers and down through the water to the muddy bottom. Spotlighted in the sun’s rays, minnows and tadpoles dart about and disappear in the black, leaf-dyed shadows. Woodpeckers laugh, hummingbirds buzz, cicadas sing, birds chirp, leaves rustle. A warm, sweet fragrance wisps it’s way down the creek.
The smells of the forest find currents to travel. You may find a path, it may be the right path too, and move swiftly along, passing through jet streams of honeysuckle breeze. The scent comes and goes so swiftly that one might think it lasts for only a moment.
This was my thinking an hour ago. A breeze begins and carries the scent of smiles. It dies away and with it dies the fragrance.
I move along the path, wishing for another wafting. I was walking along Kingsnake Trail. It goes on all day. There are 27,000 acres to traverse. One believes if he stops, ceases forward motion for a moment, then he’s not making progress. He might miss some beauty that awaits up ahead. Truth is, the entire forest is bathed in beauty, it’s not more or less beautiful at any point along the path, and one will reach it soon enough.
But the path is strewn with distractions and inconveniences. Even those things that grab attention and demand a photo and contemplation, eventually become distractions. A snake sunning in the middle of the path is a fascinating find. An exotic looking spider, enormous orbs, an entire cosmopolitan spider world in the space of a cubic meter is a fascination worth stopping for. These are all very exciting encounters. But eventually, one becomes wary of the overwhelming numbers of them. The spiders are ubiquitous and the snakes are surprising. One begins only to focus on avoiding a face full of web and a surprised spider looking for refuge under his collar. He checks every step for coiled snakes, and subterranean yellow-jacket nests.

I walked a mile through spider webs and mosquitoes, bent on seeing the next exciting view up the path. Eventually, I became weary of the anxious feeling of stray strands of spider silk tickling my arms. The very things that caused me fascination and momentary pauses for study and enjoyment had become annoying distractions. When the next sweet breeze crossed my path, I stopped to break from the spider wars and learned that the breeze had not found me, I’d found it. It didn’t die away. I was in a current of wafting wonder, and decided to sit a while. The scent remained. As long as I sat, the breeze that carried it kept meandering by.
Here I am, beside the creek, basking in the lingering quiet of honeysuckle and warm, sweet wild flowers. I’ve also noticed something more than the lingering scent. The distractions have ceased as well. As long as I sit, I’m not fighting spider webs, I will surprise snakes rather than be surprised. Butterflies light on my knees, drawn by the sweet fragrance that I have decided to settle into.
I hope I still smell of honeysuckle when I leave here.

on a rail

on a rail
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Of course train tracks are a photo cliché, but how can someone walk past a set of tracks without pressing the shutter button? I dare you. Try it.
Train tracks are fascinating. They raise questions, fantasies, possibilities. They have inspired many references that have become cliché as well. We strive to keep ourselves on track, some of us need to get our lives back on track. Many of us travel life so precariously that it is easy to get derailed. When a stockcar driver finds his groove and runs well, we say he’s on a rail.
They are a metaphor for just about any aspect of life – good or bad. Often, when life gets tough and it seems as if responsibilities, stress, and busyness accumulates, we feel we’re on a runaway freight train. A particularly cumbersome responsibility, especially when others are involved feels like we’re driving a train. Life on a rail can be a good thing or a bad thing depending on where you’re headed and how fast.
I used to listen to an 8-track tape compilation of Johnny Cash songs about trains and rivers. I always thought it was cute when there was a quick-fade in the middle of “Blue Train” for the cassette to “switch tracks.”

I find it interesting that particular genres of music have predictable subject matter. Usually, one can tell the style of popular music simply by reading the lyric. Country music and country-rock have always relied heavily on transportation, not only to get from concert to concert, but also as lyric fodder. The mode of transportation changes with the decades, but regardless of how, the songs are about moving, getting back to you, getting away from you, or simply starting over.
After trains became less fashionable, tractor-trailers were the preferred mode of country music travel. Six days on the road and I’m gonna make it home tonight. I just can’t wait to get on the road again. Of course technology makes all things smaller, so these days, the preferred country music mode is the pickup truck. I’m dreading the day that it becomes the motorcycle, because that will really torque off a lot of thrash and speed metal enthusiasts. But there is no doubt, it will always be about moving. It’s enough to be on your way. It’s ironic then that a few other genres of music seem to be about stagnation. But that’s all I’m going to say about that!
It seems that it may be enough to be moving on, because movement stands a better chance of revealing whether the tracks are heading in the right direction or to the right destination. Of course it is very difficult to change directions when too much momentum is gathered in the wrong direction. But it can be done. It may be next to impossible to stop a train and reverse direction, but there are such things as switches and switchbacks, and connector lines that can bring one back to the right track.
So I realize that long, straight tracks and gentle bends in the distance are photographic clichés and overused metaphor, but switches aren’t. So I’m posting a cliché tonight, but tomorrow I’m going after switches. It’s never too late to switch tracks. Better to save all the cars you’re pulling than to save face.

give us a kiss

give us a kiss
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Do beware though, the whole "kiss/toad" thing is based deeply on unexpected outcomes -one's willingness to feel and show love to the apparently unattractive, or even unlovable. Superficial physical attraction could result then in an old hag, or impossibly selfish and insular unwarranted egomania.
So while a kiss for an ugly toad will often result in a handsome prince, to kiss this particular cutie will most likely result in "little man's syndrome with a John Lithgow voice. Think Lord Farquaad.

when sunday morning smiled on me

when sunday morning smiled on me
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Yesterday morning, as I was driving 40 minutes to church, I crossed a line in the road to freedom. I'm not sure exactly where it was, I have to admit, that I only realized I had crossed it after the fact. Suddenly, I felt more alive than I've felt in weeks. Perhaps normally, I would say, "... in years," but I've had an alive summer.
The early evidence of Autumn's approach was apparent in the non-committal weather of a September Sunday morning. The sky was dark and overcast, the air felt a bit thick, and I saw that it could just go on like that all day, or it could burn off and reveal the blue that I knew was up there somewhere. Either way, I was willing to play along. I perfectly prepared to go about my morning, drive home, plant myself on the couch for my Sabbath Snooze and bask in my overcastedness. Then again, if the sun decided to burn through, I was prepared to lift myself from the cushions, bathe in the blue and sneak off to feel the sunset.
Up ahead, a hole opened in the overcast, and perfectly projected crepuscular rays spotlit the tree tops in a circle. By the time I reached the river, the hole had widened and the sun was glinting on the water and shining off the paddles of a lone rower 50 yards from either bank. That’s when I realized it. For several miles, I’d been alive. I was alone on a stretch of empty interstate watching a woman rowing alone on an empty stretch of river. She was alive. I was alive. The morning was alive.
From that point on, I didn’t miss a thing. I saw the expat Asian faces climbing the stairs to the Korean church I’d recently discovered. I saw the cattle egrets circled around the cows and taking flight only to circle and come back to where they had been. I stopped for a while and attempted photographs of the perfectly white gleaners, and irritated a bull with my presence.
After church, I whipped out my camera and captured community and music, and children dancing.
I spotted one quiet girl and tried to flirt with her, but she’d have nothing of it. No shy glances, no hiding behind mommy’s arm, no silly smile. She looked me straight in the eye and preached to me a sermon that only a child can bring. If I told you what she told me, you’d never believe me. If you did believe me, you may not understand. I’m not sure I fully understand yet. But I know it’s up to me to figure it out, because I’m the only one who heard the sermon.
I thought of that little girl all day. I thought of her when Molly and I drove off to take pictures. I thought of her while we talked to Ms. Richardson, the queen of the realm. I never laid eyes on Allison all day. She came home and went to bed before I arrived home. She was gone again to work before Molly and I came home in the evening. But four women played in my day. With a span of 72 years, surely the lesson was deeply important.
This evening, with the whole fam in tow, I crossed over the river again. Almost instinctively, I glanced down at the water looking for the rower. She wasn’t there. But as I glanced, Allison gazed up the river and said, “we should get something to put on the river on days like this - a canoe, or kayak, or something. Wouldn’t that peaceful? … so peaceful.”

silver fox

silver fox
Originally uploaded by rod lewis

Wouldn't it be cool if you could rid the world of strangers?

Molly and I stole about 90 minutes this evening to hang together and take some pictures. We didn't know where to go, or what to look for, but when we passed a couple llamas that we've wanted to talk to before, we decided we'd found the place.
The llamas were close to the road, and a gated driveway was open, so we walked inside the fence. I could see a lady at the end of the driveway, so we walked toward her to ask if we could snoop about.
"Well the gate's open honey, just pull your truck up into the driveway."
We did, and shot the llamas (with digital sensors, of course - no harm was done). We also got pics of turkeys, guineas, some really awesome goats, and a gargantuan gaggle of geese.

When we'd finished snooping, we walked back to sit with the lady and maybe talk awhile. Her name is Ms. Richardson. If you know anything about our Dutch Fork area, you'd know that nearly all the roads are named Richardson Road. One can tell the old property lines by the change of road names. The fiefdoms of Sites, and Eleazar border the Realm of Richardson in the greater Dutch Fork, and generations have roads named for them. No doubt, we spent an hour last evening visiting with the queen of realm.
On the hill beside her, overlooking the same pond, live her son and daughter-in-law. Down the hill, by the pond below, rests her husband, the late Charles Richardson, 1927-2001. All around her range the guinea fowl, turkeys, geese, cats and chickens among the grazing goats and llamas.
She tried to get us to take the geese with us. :-) "I just can't seem to get them to leave," she said. "I guess it's because I feed them every day."

To the west, sets the sun that casts shadows and provides shade beneath the pinoaks in her yard, and glints its last golden rays on the ripples in the wake of the lazy geese. Her smile provides warmth as the cooler air of evening creates breezes and settles over the low-lying pond.
Don’t be a stranger. There’s plenty of time and sweet tea. There’s enough southern drawl for many evenings of conversation. There are enough memories for hours of solitude, but memories are better shared.