sense of place: randbøldal museum

a bright, crisp autumn day. highly volatile, changeable weather. sunshine one minute and rain the next. wind racing clouds across the sky. you have to capture those moments of light when they happen, because they'll be gone in the next second.

there's something about a little museum that's so personal and accessible. something in the very air at randbøldal that whispers of the weavers who came before, even if the looms aren't the same ones - the sounds of the tramping pedals are the same, the voices talking together echo of the voices that came before. the shelves filled with naturally-dyed yarns, mushrooms ready for dyeing the next batch. as true a copy of the clothing worn by the egtved pige as can be woven today. in a little museum you can come close to all of these things.

you can go on a guided walk in the woods, looking for mushrooms and then you can see for yourself the changes wrought to the yarn by their steamy mushroom bath, maybe even be allowed to stir it a bit yourself. at a small museum, the experience is something you can fully appreciate. it doesn't try to do too much, it is what it is and isn't pretending to be more.

in these times when everything has to be an event of sorts, an experience, sometimes the best experience is the one that happens inside of you when you encounter a place where it's still and calm and relaxed. where there's time for people to tell you stories. and there's time for you to try things for yourself. to become part of the tradition in a sense, take part in the history. to weave your own meaning.

it's definitely the volunteers that make such a place so special - with their stories and their philosophies and all of the knowledge they have to give. i am happy to be a volunteer in training (truth be told, i'm mostly the photographer), learning from these lovely women (and men). hearing their stories and soaking in the history in this beautiful little hidden spot.

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if you want to know a bit more, i have written previously about the magical little bitty museum tucked away in randbøldal. it's where i first encountered weaving, which still speaks to some deep part of my soul.

sense of place: civilized sunrise

the sun makes its way slowly (and perhaps a bit lazily) towards the horizon.
blazing a trail of yellow, orange, red and purple more reminiscent of sunset than sunrise.
but sunrise it is.
at the very civilized hour of 7:40 in the morning.

the first frost carpets the grass.

a stillness fills the air, broken only by an occasional bird call.

everyone was sleeping in, even the birds.

smoky puffs of breath hang visible in the air for a moment before dissipating.

cool air rushing in on sleepy lungs,

bringing with it a cool clarity.

there's an expectancy in the air,
waiting for the sun to finally burst over the horizon.
and the day, with all its promise still intact, to begin in earnest.

a sense of place: march 1

cold. still. quiet.
silence broken only by the squawk of a pheasant in the distance,
the song of small birds spreading the word about the seeds i just put out.

grey. hushed. crisp.
black outlines of branches
against a sky encompassing the range of grey tones.
even grey can be beautiful.
in the crisp cold silence.

a new month.
a step closer to spring.
and a faint scent of spring in the air.
hello march, what took you so long?