In the Pink...

Google informs me that the phrase "in the pink" means in perfect condition, and is used especially of health.  I like the cliche for its implications.  "In the pink" is certainly apt description for how I feel when I can get outside.  Sometimes I am drawn to particular places; always I am alert to the presence of wildlife--the winged ones, the four-footed, even insects. I like the feel of wind on my face and I like the still, meditative feeling of the very air holding its breath when the breeze abates. No matter what's the matter, I always find solace, strength, serenity, whatever I need in the outdoors.

Afterglow

Lately, I've been drawn to pink. And yellow. I'm not imagining the pretty pastel wardrobes of spring gardens, though with another colder-than-usual winter I am not adverse to that idea! Rather I am seeing shades of pinks and yellows as backdrops to something else, different hues where I usually see blues or grays. The more I think about these shades, the more they seem to appear. The other afternoon as I was driving home from a wonderful encounter with my first ever Snow Bunting, thanks to the generosity of fellow photographer and birder Jeff Lewis who called to tell me where it was, I had pink on my mind.

Snow Bunting, Bodie Island

By the time I reached the road into my little island home, the sun set, turning sky and sound into a glorious wash of pink. I stopped at a small public access and photographed some Canada Geese floating in what looked like hot pink and purple ribbons.

Last month I watched a group of Snow Geese take wing into paler pink skies.

All of these outings and sightings definitely help me stay "in the pink." Hopefully you will feel the same way.

On Reflection...

For the past month, members of the Outer Banks region of the Carolinas Nature Photographers Association (CNPA) have focused on "Reflections" as our monthly theme. As I write this blog, the cold northeast wind is gusting over 40 mph, driving rain sideways. The Outer Banks is noted for nearly constant winds--that's the main reason the Wright Brothers came here from Ohio to test their gliders in preparation for the first powered flight on December 17, 1903. Ranging from light breezes to strong gusty gales, Outer Banks air is seldom still. That makes mirror reflections more of a challenge here than in areas with calm, clear lakes or slow-flowing rivers.

I find maintaining a still, calm, reflective heart is as much of a challenge as photographing mirror-like reflections. I think I reflect my best self, the self that is most connected both to the world around me and to God, in those moments. Sometimes they are literally moments, heartbeats and breaths in the midst of a busier, fast-paced day.

This reflection is precious to me since Pete and I were riding on a jet boat tour of the Colorado River. Most of the ride created a wake that rippled the water into waves and distorted reflections. At certain river bends, my view ahead gave brief moments of stillness. This is one of those.

This particular reflection taught me that even an inch of rainwater can act as a mirror, if the angle and light are right. Bodie Island Light, 2006, after a winter rain. I'd gone to search for egrets but the rainwater puddles provided the best view of the day. My larger lesson here is that sometimes calm comes as a gift even when I am focused anywhere but.

Sometimes wind can be an advantage, inviting the viewer into a fantasy world instead of mirroring reality. I created When Trees Dream in December, 2007 on the north end of Roanoke Island. Sometimes I use my meditative moments to imagine beauty and find gratitude even in the midst of life's storms.

Finally, here is one of the images I shared with our photo group last night: a group of Northern Shovelers resting on a rare windless, cold winter morning at Pea Island in January 2015. I find that my spirit as well as my eye rests in reflecting imagery and the sense of quiet such photographs imply.

Early Spring? Not until Osprey arrive.

Sometimes we have seasons in our lives when themes seem to repeat themselves, over and over. I find this true with photography, too. I need to pay attention when certain motifs show up time and again. I've learned to be more aware when this happens with particular birds or critters, and ask for the greater lesson in the appearances. I find that each one always brings its own gifts. I recently made a new friend for whom Osprey and Red-tailed Hawks are messengers. I love them both myself but am especially alert these days for woodpeckers(especially Pileateds) and Crows. Both of those came calling at key moments this week for me. In neither case did I make a photograph--the moment was auditory more than visual. Over the years I have had the chance to photograph both, and to photograph hawks and Osprey as well. For my new friend, here are some of my favorite Osprey moments.

Osprey mate for life and the male is involved in every aspect of raising baby osprey to adulthood, including helping build or repair the nest, incubating eggs, and feeding the female and baby osprey. 

I've witnessed all of these behaviors over the years.

Fishing at dawn.

The cycle begins again. This pair, in the Colington Harbour marina, has been together for at least the past 18 springs. We always keep close watch in late February/early March for their arrival. They don't spend the winter together in the same place, and have a staggered schedule of return so I am always grateful when both come safely home.

I call this "Chip off the block." This is the papa osprey and one of the offspring. Baby Osprey have orange eyes. 

Unexpected Gifts

I read about photographers who approach their photography as a successful CEO might prepare for a meeting of the company board of directors: plan the work and work the plan. I understand and admire the strategy; photography doesn't seem to work that way for me. It's not that I don't think ahead of time or go to a location with a pre-determined subject or point of view. More often than not, I am surprised by what or who I find. I practice pre-visualizing only to find other gifts await. Mindful photography for me means more than using my mind to learn my gear or learn about the natural rhythms of the places and critters I love to photograph--although I do all that to try to be prepared when I go. Mindful photography means having an open mind and heart to respond to the moment as it is. I often find myself longing for more time to photograph, wishing I had hours to spend in a given spot, or the chance to revisit sites day after day to learn even more about who comes where, when. My life--as I suspect is true of many of you--includes what I've come to call touch-and-go photography. I squeeze in precious minutes around necessary tasks. I let those minutes touch my heart and I go back into the daily refreshed and inspired.

Here are three of my favorite gifts I never saw coming.

After a late fall nor'easter, I went to the beach, intent on the wrack line, a treasure trove of whelk egg cases, skate cases, broken shells, small driftwood fragments. I kept my eyes downward toward my feet when a persistent impulse insisted: look UP! I finally listened, looked, and received this "Sky Smile" -- an upside-down rainbow directly overhead. Seconds later it was gone. 

This is also an "after-the-storm" image. I'd hired a pilot so I could photograph the Currituck Light from the air.  As we flew north I noticed huge clumps of sea foam, one of which looked like a misshapen heart. As I watched and photographed, the heart came into perfect form. Seconds later, the shape changed. By the time we reached the lighthouse, the sun's angle made the photograph I'd originally envisioned impossible. I'm convinced I was in the air that day to receive--and share--this greater gift. 

In January 2013 a group of local nature photographers made our annual trek to Lake Mattamuskeet. This would be my first time at the lake before dawn. I imagined vibrant winter skies, glowing oranges and pinks in sky and water. Instead, the day dawned with dense fog rather than golden morning light. The fog turned out to be the gift. The cypress trees, seemingly suspended in space, mesmerized me. I photographed them from different angles with different lenses at different times of the morning. A year later, this photograph would win the Gold Medal for landscape photography in the inaugural World Photographic Cup: definitely a gift I never saw coming!

Cabin Fever

Lately I, along with many artist and photographer friends, am suffering a long case of Cabin Fever. And it’s only January!  We’re not snowed in or iced in, as are our neighbors to the north and west. We’re grayed-in and rained-in and therefore somewhat reined in (pun intended).

Funny term, cabin fever. When I think of “cabin” I immediately free associate woods and wood, cozy, warm, inviting, blanket, fireplace and mountains.  Those are all exciting and comforting words for me. Some readers may instead conjure sand, relaxing, colorful, beach towel and ocean.

For whatever form your Cabin Fever takes, I offer up these treasured moments and memories.

Cabin Rockers, North Rim, Grand Canyon

Western North Carolina

Old Cape Cod

Hatteras Village, NC

Sealed...with Gratitude

Harbor seals herald winter on the Outer Banks, as Osprey signal spring's official arrival. 

Probably prompted by yesterday's minimum temperature of sixteen degrees, the season's first harbor seal hauled out to rest on the (comparatively) warm sand of Kitty Hawk this afternoon. As the shadows lengthened and the tide crept in, the seal went back in the water and swam away south. For the past several years, harbor seals have come ashore along the Outer Banks for a few hours to a few days in order to warm themselves and snooze in the sun. NEST volunteers typically place signs in the area asking folks to give the seals a wide berth and let them rest. This is a situation where a telephoto lens comes in handy. 

Healthy seals rest in a position that would send me running, make that hobbling, to the nearest chiropractor! The "banana" pose is a sign of a healthy seal, and this one stretched and rolled and raised its hind flippers multiple times.

 

Here is a first look, from several houses to the north.

Yes, they look cute. No, you may not go up to one. 

The only way to approach them is via binoculars or a long lens--for their safety and yours. 

Big yawn. 

Shortly after the tide came in, the seal left the beach. Nap time over. 

Essences of Winter

As owner along with my husband Pete of a fine art gallery and frame shop on the Outer Banks of NC, I've made friends with many painters these past nine years. Painters--like writers and musicians--begin with a blank. A blank canvas, a blank paper, an empty page, silence. Into this space they pour themselves, their visions, their words, their melodies.

Photographers are polar opposites. We begin with an overload of input, all our eyes can see in any given direction, all our ears can hear. Our challenge is to edit from the get-go, not after a first draft or initial sketch. Out of all this stimuli, where is the story? What cries out or whispers gently for attention? What is the essence here?

Sometimes the entire scene properly framed can communicate the essence of a place or a season. Sometimes the essence is much more subtle and better told through distilling an image that contains very few elements. Take winter. (The forecast with windchill for tomorrow morning is single digits, so I have "essence of winter" on my mind tonight.)

Our winters, even our worst ones, contain plenty of days over 50 degrees, and enough days in the 60s and above to make us believe in spring all winter long. If we do get a snowstorm, accumulation usually is under an inch or two and rarely lasts longer than a day. We don't have iconic snowcapped mountain peaks and frozen waterfalls.  So how can a photographer get to the essence to tell a winter story of the Outer Banks?

This illustrates an example of a scene with multiple elements, all of which help define the sense of place that is the mid-Atlantic coast. Sand fence does duty as snow fence, seaside grasses are covered with white powder which balances with the white foam of a wind-driven ocean. 

Here I went searching for something subtler. Spanish moss is native to the southeast coast; the limit of its northern native range is coastal Virginia.  The contradiction of a plant associated with the deep south bearing a weight of snowfall creates a vignette of winter in the south. The fact that the snowy moss resembled a heart is what drew my own heart to the story being told here through very few elements. 

Neither approach is superior. Photographers, as their artistic compatriots, must exercise the power of choice and discernment to tell their stories well.