Beautiful Meditation

Rest is something that can be captured as form
of meditation, 
or a day-dream, the idea of slowing
down and taking notice 
of the present, re-store,
a point of re-envisioning challenges

and looking at them with intent.

Rest isn’t only a stop, it’s a place on a journey.
An “intermission of labor, mental peace.”
That quiet stance of contemplation,
being in that place, a sentinel, an observant.

Rest, Respite.
Restore, renew.
To look again. To see anew.

harvard exit
Wall of the Harvard Exit Movie Theater
Capitol Hill, Seattle

photo
Greenlake at twilight

Beautiful Orange

History of Chrome orange:

Chromium was the chameleon-like fruit of a Siberian mineral, called crocoite and discovered in the eighteenth century. The mineral is deep orange, a natural form of lead chromate. It was analysed in the late 1790s by the eminent French chemist Nicolas Louis Vauquelin, who identified the new element chromium as the source of the color. Vauquelin studied the compounds of chromium, and found that he could make bright yellow and rich orange versions of lead chromate, both of which he proposed as potential pigments. Chrome orange became the first pure orange pigment since the medieval use of realgar, a highly toxic compound of arsenic. The chromium colors did not become widespread, however, until the discovery of chromium-containing mineral deposits in France, USA and Britain. By replacing the lead in chrome yellow with other metals, such as zinc and strontium, the color could be tuned to paler or more acidic hues, such as ‘lemon yellow’.  Chrome orange was introduced as a pigment in 1809. The world production of chrome orange ceased few years ago.

orange1 orange 2 orange 3 orange 4 orange-interior-decor-living-room1 PANTONE-COLOR-OF-THE-YEAR-2012_TANGERINE-TANGO_ORANGE-INTERIORS_BELLE-MAISON-BLOG-2

Beautiful Forest

forest

Lost in the forest…

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent. 

by Pablo Neruda