Ottawa photographer Ruth Dick delights in catching the magic of music created in a moment.
The stillness of the summer day opens up before you and I, the only sound between us the clicking of cicadas and the cool breeze stirring up the long grass between our feet.
The smell of hot pavement is its own very particular vehicle in service of memory lane.
New life breaks in and the tendrils of the plants and trees bend their way to the sun, and we too reach towards the Son asking, "will you make me disruptively new?"
Life lived on and by the water, a holy place of sorts. Is not water the space in which we are most continually asked to trust?
Smog shrouds what little sunlight we get in this season. The water laps on the worn concrete bricks along the eddy I call home.
Worn rock lapped thin by years of canal murmurings. Brightly coloured dilapidated building keeps watch along the waterway, with shutters for eyes and laundry lines for their instrument of measurement they bear silent witness to the life than unfolds each day along this waterway commute.
What does this expanse murmur to me? What does it say of God? What does it say of belonging in an wasteland? What does it say of formation in the face of the desert wind?
The moon rises over Your kingdom, well orbed and full, dusty and yet beaming bright.
The marsh and sky both look as though they are on fire. Is this what the first flame of the Holy Spirit looked like when it came to the disciples in a small dark room?
The tiled roof of the old subway station gleams in the late afternoon sun. This station has been the centre of our small European village for as long as I can remember.
Lines, obtuse, angled, harsh, specific reach every which way. A concrete jungle, I thought bitterly, wishing not for the first time for the rolling hills of my hometown so very far away at this moment.