There’s a time for talking and there’s a time for quiet. My mother used to say that quite frequently when I was a child and I never knew if that particular saying came from a deep well of wisdom or if she was just annoyed by my endless stream of inquisitive “how-come” questions. I suspect it was a little bit of both, but what I do know for certain is that she was right. As a writer, words are my “thing”–besides being the practical source of my income, they have been the only way I know how to express myself. I’m slowly learning how to silence myself, listen and observe. It’s a work in progress, believe me.
I came across some pictures I took this past summer while on a farm tour and, for some reason, I got all weepy and nostalgic. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re black and white photos (gets me every time) or maybe it’s the enduring truth that a single photograph can speak infinitely louder than a string of words.