stedsans: late at night

i love to stay up late. the house all quiet, aside from the odd snore coming from husband in the bedroom behind me. a cat curled up in my lap on her favorite red curly sheepskin pillow (do sheep come in red?). the glow of the screen before me, a glass of wine at hand. the whole vast expanse of awesome that is the internet, just waiting for me to explore it. there are times when it feels like it would be foolish to sleep. i feel wide awake, ultra aware, open to the hum of the universe. those times are admittedly after a late afternoon venti latte macchiato, but they can actually happen on a normal basis as well. i love late nights. and on these long, light evenings, even as i write this and it's nearly midnight, there is a glow on the horizon, although it's raining outside. and that makes me want to stay up even more. i crave this time. to be alone with myself. with the words. with stories. with images. with all of those ethereal blips on my computer screen, left there by others...their thoughts, their views, their ideas, their notions of what's interesting and beautiful. i want to take them all in, touch them, chew them, swallow them, digest them into something of my own. processing, like my aging iMac, steadily, but perhaps a bit slower than at one time. but processing just the same. all by ourselves here in the night.

where do you read?

i read nearly anywhere (even sometimes while driving), but the best place is on a lazy summer day in the backyard of my falling down farmhouse out in the countryside. essential ingredients are a library book (of course), a hand-stitched quilt made by my great great grandmother annie back in the 1940s, a couple of pillows and a beverage. in this photo, a cider, but it could just as well be a cold glass of minted lemonade or a summery st. germain cocktail (we've jumped on the st. germain bandwagon around here). what's important is the scent of the lilac-drenched air, the song of the birds and the occasional cat stopping by to flop down in the shade. i can't think of a better place to read. come on by, bring your book, i'll make you a cocktail too...

quaint little churches

i've suddenly started noticing quaint little country churches in sleepy little towns everywhere i go (and i go through quite a lot of sleepy little towns these days). most danish churches have a dutch renaissance architecture to them, but in recent days i've been noticing ones that don't.

despite not at all being religious, i do love churches as buildings. the thoughtfulness that has gone into their design - whether it's simple or extravagant - can always be admired. it's an architecture that somehow does often capture some holiness or at the very least a reverent hush.

i only snapped these as i went by, hopping out of the car on a windy, cold day to quickly capture them and then get back on my way, but i do love to go inside. especially if there's no one there. the quiet and the smell of warm wax are soothing. you can always find a moment of respite in the quiet, calm, holiness of a church space. and if there's anywhere that god (or odin or thor or whatever name you like to use) might be listening, it's surely in one of this little country churches.

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?