Morning Has Broken

ImageThe Pier (C) by Debi Bradford


The sun rises every morning without fail regardless of weather or the politics of man.

We may or may not witness this miracle but it happens nonetheless.

I’d begun to take this miracle for granted.

Proximity creates familiarity.

How many sunrises have I photographed?


How many sunrise images do I have on my hard drive?


Recently, I would waken early but lie there thinking…..

Oh, it’s almost sunrise.  Do I NEED another sunrise image?


So, I simply stopped going out to observe and photograph sunrises.



ImageShells (C) 2014 by Debi Bradford


I forgot.

Photographing sunrises wasn’t the point.

Witnessing sunrises was.

Witnessing sunrises has been my morning ritual, my morning meditation, my ocean-labyrinth walk.

Photography was only the side show.

Over time photographing and sharing the event began to overshadow the morning meditation.



Dancing Cloud (C) 2014 by Debi Bradford


I forgot.

There’s magic wherever you look on a morning beach.

Simply being on the beach is a blessing.

Sand between my toes is a balm.

A refreshing surf splashing on my legs is bliss.

Wind whipping my hair into knots brings laughter.

Gulls laughing overhead brings joy.

The sound of crashing waves drowns out the world.

It’s only me and the sea.

Salt air fills and cleanses my lungs.

Walking the beach strengthens my legs, my heart, my soul.



Sit a Spell (C) 2014 by Debi Bradford


I forgot.

So, I took very few images this morning.

Instead, I sat on a rental’s beach steps and watched the morning gently stretch and waken.

Walking back I stopped to rest on the boardwalk bench.

Life is good.

Lesson learned.


Antique Fire Truck

Road Trip Memory

Long ago, my mom and her best friend took us kids to a small rural town in North Alabama to shop for antiques.  That’s not what they called them back then, “antiques,” but that’s what they bought.  Driving into town, pulling up to the corner store of their choice we kids tumbled out of the car and stared.  The roads were made of dirt and there were mule wagons coming and going loaded with cotton and whatnot.  The railroad ran right through the middle of town.  Entering the shop we feasted on the smell of dust and fabrics, wood and metal and a gazillion things stacked in tall shelving that required a ladder to reach.  The place was bigger than life to a kid and busy with humanity.  A train rumbled through and dust rained down from the ceiling.  It was a kids fantasy, this hot, dusty place filled with unknown objects that not one person minded you touching.

One day I drove back to this town to revisit the memory.  The roads are paved now but not much else has changed.  The store, now painted bright red with a new For Sale sign in the window, is empty.  All of the stores fronting the railroad track are empty except for one barber shop.  Nature is reclaiming the old road fronting the stores as weeds and saplings grow through cracks.  The railroad track is still in use but the train no longer stops there.  Disoriented a bit, I pull over and stop.  Getting out of my car I’m taken by the silence.  It’s the middle of the day, middle of the week, and the place is like a ghost town.  I notice an antique fire truck parked in a weedy field next to the railroad track.  It is beautiful, but obviously has been there a long time.  As I take photographs of it one of the fireman comes out to talk to me.  “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he says of the antique fire truck.  “Yes, she is,” I remark.  “Wanna buy ‘er?”  Um, no.  I’ve no need for an antique fire truck but thank you anyway.  We share stories of the town, our memories similar, and I take my leave.

The photo, above, is just my playing around with the antique fire truck photograph in Photoshop.  That’s all.  I’m just playing and reminiscing.  Do you have a childhood memory that colorful, that vivid, that you can see the golden colors and smell the dust?