Dust Echoes

The universe has sent me a thing of beauty just when I needed it.

Searching for an image to accompany my previous post, I came across this logo:

dust echoes

Given my explanation of dust as a metaphor for all that piles up in one’s mind, I found it an apt illustration – but I was curious as to its creator’s views on the subject.  Clicking on the link, I found this amazing website.  A project of Tom E. Lewis, Dust Echoes offers animated shorts from then emerging Australian animators, depicting touchstone stories of Aboriginal culture.  The homepage itself is a story, drawing viewers right into the landscape.  Aimed at engaging young people in the rich traditions and history of the Aboriginal people, it is a visual and auditory treat for people of any age.

So, in answer to my question, the creators of this graphic had totally different views on the idea of dust echoing.  They helped me see that there is great value in hearing echoes of the past and transmitting them to future generations.

Scenes from September 11

I had some quiet moments by myself as the sun set this evening.  A somber day, but the calls of playing children wafted in on the wind.  A sliver of moon rose above the trees.  The quiet thrum of life buzzed all around.

Long may she wave . . .

Long may she wave . . .

Knowledge is power no matter the time or place

Knowledge is power no matter the time or place

Wisdom stands sentinel

Wisdom stands sentinel

After each dusk, comes a dawn

After each dusk, comes a dawn




Agony in the Garden of Life

There is beauty in agony.

The angle of the fading sun spotlighting horses on a hill

The absence of pain between excruciating contractions

The way the air is sucked out of the room as the ailing takes her last breath

The chances, possibilities

      that never existed when there was no pain,

      no reason to take risks,

      Only a stasis that lured us into settling.

    There is no proverbial gain without the pain.

    Acute, clarifying, sharp —


    The country road I drove down this morning looked magical.

    A feathered path down its middle where the few cars had passed.

    A vortex of flakes pulling me through the windshield.

    Boulders, trees, leaves touched by a light dusting.

    The magic messed with by industrial orange dump trucks spewing their salt,

    but reemerging in a parking lot, of all places.

    A perfectly formed star pulled from the sky and placed on the fleece forest of my glove.

    Another and another.

    In relief against the black rubber strip of my car,snowflakes

    the honey colored curls of my daughter,

    the harsh, manipulative world we live in.

    A tiny reminder of

    the awesome, wondrously made world we sometimes forget we live in.

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