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I recently found myself wandering the solemn paths of the Normandy American Cemetery, a vast resting place for those who gave their lives during World War II. Unlike the British Normandy Memorial, the American Cemetery boasts a Visitor Centre that offers a deeper dive into the battle's narratives, bringing to ( Read more... )

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It was an overcast morning. The wind was blowing from the north. I drove out to the British Normandy Memorial, just outside the village of Ver-sur-Mer. When I arrived, there was no one else there. It was quiet, except for the sound of the wind.

I walked up to the memorial, a series of white stone pillars rising ( Read more... )

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Woke up late.

Hair's a mess, sticking out every which way.

Stumbled to the bathroom mirror.

Stared at my reflection in this cramped Rouen apartment.

Ran my fingers through the tangles, but they wouldn't cooperate.

Oh well. C'est la vie.

Some days are like that.

Might as well embrace the chaos.

Snapped a quick selfie, messy locks and all.

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​I stand before Monet's grave.

The day is cold, the sky gray.

Giverny's church in the near distance.

His years of color, now faded.

Impressions of a life fully lived.

Resting in the earth he once painted.

An artist's eternal palette.

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I walked near Le Jardin d'Eau.

The famous water gardens in Giverny.

That inspired Monet's paintings.

His luminous water lilies and tranquil ponds.

I saw the Japanese bridge he built.

And stood before the weeping willows.

The wisteria and bamboo.

That he planted with care.

In this garden sanctuary.

Where light dances on water.

And Monet's vision ( Read more... )

“The Hero Path

We have not even to risk the adventure alone
for the heroes of all time have gone before us.
The labyrinth is thoroughly known ...
we have only to follow the thread of the hero path.
And where we had thought to find an abomination
we shall find a God.

And where we had thought to slay another
we shall slay ourselves.
Where we had thought to ( Read more... )

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I wandered into Nagoro, the most remote village in Japan.

Silence hung heavy in the air, a haunting stillness.

Scarecrows outnumbered humans, 300 to 30.

Lifeless figures posed in eternal moments.

Each straw soul a memory of someone long gone.

In this village, only ghosts and dolls remain.

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​I walked up the stone steps.

Chikurinji Temple stood before me.

Kōchi, on the island of Shikoku.

Number 31 of 88 temples on the pilgrimage.

Founded by Gyōki, a Buddhist priest, in the 8th century.

I passed through the temple gate.

Paid respects to Monju Bosatsu, bodhisattva of wisdom.

The main hall held a hidden treasure.

A statue of Monju, ( Read more... )

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I stand on the rocky shore.

Waves crash against the cliffs.

The sea stretches endlessly.

Gulls wheel overhead, crying.

Fishing boats bob in the distance.

A lighthouse perches, steadfast.

The salty breeze fills my lungs.

I am small in this vast beauty.

Nature's power humbles me.

I find peace in the solitude.

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I drove to the Jogu Submersible Bridge.

It was early morning.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows

I parked and walked out onto the bridge

Water lapped gently at the concrete

Twice a day, the bridge sinks beneath the surface

Allowing boats to pass

A marvel of engineering

Connecting two pieces of land

Giving way to the ebb and flow

I stood there ( Read more... )