Personal Favorites
Red Poppy on Black
Our flower garden here at the Abbey is usually filled with poppies in the early spring and summer. I’ve always admired the dark red ones but was never moved to photograph one. As the 2018 poppy season was beginning to pass, I decided to photograph just one flower against a black background. What interested me most was the shape, the fragility of the leaves and the rich red color. I must have taken two dozen or more shots of this flower and was unhappy with all of them. As I was about to call it quits I decided I would take just one more shot for the heck of it. The image above is what turned out and I was delighted with the result.
After it was shown in a gallery exhibition that fall, the curator brought to my attention the fact that the poppy was the remembrance symbol for those who lost their lives in World War I. I have memories from my childhood of men from the American Legion and Veterans groups handing out artificial red poppies to everyone for Veterans Day or Memorial Day. The use of the poppy as a Remembrance Day symbol was influenced by a poem that was written by a World War I brigade surgeon, John McCrae, who was struck by the sight of the red flowers growing on a ravaged battlefield. It was significant that my photo was taken the same year as the one hundredth anniversary of the November 11, 1918 armistice. Since then the image has gained a special meaning for me.
The inspired poem is quoted below.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Procession
This photograph is one of the oldest in my collection and has always been a favorite. It dates to the mid-1990’s and was taken with a 35-mm camera on B&W film. It depicts the monastic community processing through the cloister for the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on August 15, an ancient custom in our order. It has been reprinted many times and used in brochures and books published by the Abbey. Once it was used as a two-page spread in Popular Photography Magazine. Over the years it has become a kind of icon of the community.
It is very difficult to photograph a religious procession and I think that anyone who has tried will agree. Many times there is always someone or something that throws the whole thing off and takes away the transcendent moment that you are trying to capture, especially when one or more persons in the procession become aware that they are being photographed. The uniqueness of this image is that it did not happen. The monks were totally unaware that they were being photographed so the focus was on their movement and their chanting. The back-lighting adds another dimension and creates an almost spirit-like quality of one of the monks near the opposite window.
Finally, the most interesting thing, which I didn’t plan or expect, was the reflection of the tree from the cloister garden. It embraces the arched window as if even nature wanted to participate and be part of this religious procession.
This was what the monks were chanting:
We place ourselves, at your keeping,
Holy Mother of God,
refuse not the prayers of your children,
in their distress.
But deliver us from all danger,
ever virgin, glorious, and blessed.
Waiting for Spring
It was mid-December 2017 and we had the first heavy snowfall of the season the night before. As I walked down the road that leads from the Abbey, I noticed a large tree with a lonely, empty chair next to it. The sky had a grayish-blue light and the broken fence seemed to add to the melancholy nature of the composition. In the summer this is a delightful place to sit and contemplate the view of the rolling hills on the south side of the property. Today, that was a memory and I felt a certain sadness. However, I also saw the scene as a symbol for hope and anticipation. In nature, winter is a time for stillness, quiet, and repose, but when spring comes all will be turned to growth and new life. The tree, the chair and the hills will be waiting for you.
Here is a poem titled, “Waiting for Spring”, by John Newton (1725-1807)
Though cloudy skies, and northern blasts,
Retard the gentle spring awhile;
The sun will conqu’ror prove at last,
And nature wear a vernal smile.
The promise, which from age to age,
Has brought the changing seasons round;
Again shall calm the winter’s rage,
Perfume the air, and paint the ground.
The virtue of that first command,
I know still does, and will prevail;
That while the earth itself shall stand,
The spring and summer shall not fail.
Such changes are for us decreed;
Believers have their winters too;
But spring shall certainly succeed,
And all their former life renew.
Dear Lord, afford our souls a spring,
Thou know’st our winter has been long;
Shine forth, and warm our hearts to sing,
And thy rich grace shall be our song.
Pine Grove with Early Morning Mist
On a walk around the grounds a few summers ago I noticed that the morning mist was captured by a row of stately pine trees not far from the church. The space between the trees appeared to be a path to some unknown place which beckoned me to enter. The scene had a mystical look to it and I was transfixed. After I saw the picture I was delighted by the result which I hadn’t anticipated, it had a lovely, soft transcendent look. Since then it has become one of my most viewed photos and favored by many people. Unfortunately, the trees in the photo became diseased and were cut down the following year. I’m glad that I was able to capture this fleeting beauty of God’s creation. Sometimes we don’t have to go much farther than the back door to see the wonder of nature.
Under the Pines
by Kate Louise Wheeler
Under the pines, on a summer’s day,
I list to a whisper from far away,
And, lying low, with my half-closed eyes,
Behold the beauty of fairer skies.
Some say ’tis the sound of the sighing sea,
Whose distant murmur steals over me;
Some say ’tis the baby breeze instead,
That rocks in the branches overhead;
But I know it is neither wave nor breeze,
On shining sands and in leafy trees;
‘Tis the music sweet of a voice divine,
That whispers peace to each pensive pine.