I did a little reorganizing of photos on my hard drive today and came across some old photos. I love looking at old photos ... even if there is no journaling to tell the story. I know I should journal, but looking at those photos, I was reminded of a silly woman who was afraid to move, but who was so grateful for the experiencing moving.
I loved visiting this reservoir. It was the closest I could get to beachcombing. I found some of the prettiest drift wood here and I even found a fantastic shell.
I saw these photos that I snapped. I remembered the air that day was cool. I remembered the mud was sticky. I remembered the air was heavy with the smell of pungent wild fire smoke. I remembered staring at those dead trees that had drowned in the deep water of the reservoir and wondering how long they'd been there. I wondered if anyone had enjoyed their shade. I remembered feeling like it seemed almost of prehistoric times. I had such a feeling of curiosity and wonder yet I felt an eeriness, too.
Moving away from all that I knew and stepping outside of my comfort zone was terribly frightening to me. Once I got there, the time passed rather quickly. Before I knew it, it was time to pack everything up and come back home. I look back at the Kansas pages of my memory books with very fond memories. Each and every one of us grew by leaps and bounds from that experience.
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