Awake before dawn.


Time pass­es slow­ly up here in the mountains,
We sit beside bridges and walk beside fountains,
Catch the wild fish­es that float through the stream,
Time pass­es slow­ly when you’re lost in a dream.

- Bob Dylan

Back from some time away from arti­fi­cial­ly man­aged time. When the sun goes down you go to sleep. When the sun comes up you wake up. This pho­to was tak­en at dawn. The col­or of the light is nat­ur­al. This is the rose glow on the deck. The birds haven’t even begun to sing.

Hold­ing on to this moment still.

Adirondack Bound and the big pond next door.

the pond up north

Get­ting ready for the trip to the lit­tle pond, not far away from that big pond — that sits between Ver­mont and New York. I’ve been watch­ing my weath­er wid­gets that report con­di­tions at key points along the way. This morn­ing it is like­ly that it is about 50 degrees at our lit­tle Adiron­dack Camp. That’s 20 degrees cool­er than here in Philadel­phia. I am so ready to feel a shiver.

Going on this pil­grim­age away from the city, tech­nol­o­gy, and con­nec­tiv­i­ty is always a joy.

Every­thing that I am doing now is col­ored by the trip. What I need to do before I go away, what I need to pack, what I want to cook, what books will we read, what art sup­plies do I want to car­ry… Think­ing about it all brings the thoughts of being deep inside the woods… the ani­mal sounds and the refresh­ing smells of the pines and mois­ture on the leaves ear­ly in the morning.

This is a time of rest and renew­al. Where the time pass­es slowly.

the mountains bekon

moleskine sketches

The cool nights have me imag­in­ing sit­ting by the lake, a too hot cup of cof­fee cra­dled in my hands. I look out onto the glass-like lake. I can see my breath it’s like the mist on the water. I hold the silence and if I’m going to speak I know I’ll only whisper.

It’s often like that for hours. Some­times I only sketch in my Mole­sk­ine. I don’t want to dis­turb the qui­et with the rustling of paper and get­ting draw­ing sup­plies orga­nized on the deck. Some­times I close my eyes to feel the morn­ing sun on my face while I enjoy the smell of the trees and the pil­lowed sound of a birch leaf land­ing on the moss.

The sev­en hours dri­ving with the traf­fic becom­ing less dense each hour until you only see a truck or two from Cana­da pre­pares one for the soli­tude. The moun­tains shock you with their col­ored leaves and the sky bright blue.

Only a few more days now and I’ll be on the trip north.