I scoured the drowned forest for the compositions etched into my mind these last weeks. I’ve studied these trees in my dreams, I’ve watched the light illuminate their texture, I’ve seen the shadows in their shape. I was here to photograph these trees, to find their stories that have been stuck in the thickening mud of this lost place.
Manuscript from a speech presented on September 24, 2018 to the 2018 Pastors Conference of the Florida-Georgia District of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod. The topic of the conference was The Gospel In A Secular Age.
I still see shadows of her.
I walk out of a room and see her laying there, her head lifted up and a questioning look on her face. The tufts of golden brown and black hair on the side of her face are flattened from where her head was resting.
Despite unshakeable absence, her eyes still read me.
There are two significant relationships that have come to light during the most recent drawdown of the Rodman Pool on the Ocklawaha River in north central Florida.
There is a stain on the edge of the forest. There is a line marring the woods. This line, it is a recent memory. A dream, perspiring from the pores of the trees. A dream, clinging to you long after you slip away. You almost have to blur your eyes to see …
A few miles northwest of Downtown St. Augustine is a pond shaped like a tear. Its edges are fringed with cattails overlooked by reaching pine trees and southern red maples bursting with fall color. Small birds flit through scrub brush; ducks glide through the windswept water.
More than 33 years ago, the North Florida Trailblazers made it their mission to protect and maintain an 18-inch-wide strip of hiking trail known as the Florida National Scenic Trail. The trail, popular with backpackers and day hikers alike, runs more than 1,000 miles from the cypress sloughs of the Everglades to the sand dunes of Gulf Islands National Seashore in the Panhandle.
An overgrown burial ground 40 miles from civilization was not the most auspicious spot to meet a soon-to-be record-holder. That is, however, exactly where I found Environmental Science professor Jodi Eller, tucked into a ruddy green wall of mangroves ten miles beyond the southernmost point in the continental United States.
It is sometime past sunset. The world is dark and the noise of traffic has settled down for the night. I am standing in a dumpster with a smile stretched across my face, visualizing homemade apple cider, massive green salads bursting with fireworks of peppers and tomatoes, and a special treat to add to a smoothie: blueberries.
Sunlight breaks into shards of shattered glass, shining spotlights under the bridge. Haynes Creek, a slow-moving river in central Florida, ripples beneath the light. A damselfly rests upon a lily-pad, its shadow pulled downstream.