the still surface on the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else.
David Whyte, The Well of Grief (thanks to Peter Nilsen-Goodin for this well-timed recommendation)
This week, Lindsay returned home from an inspiring retreat up north and we got a visit from our dear friend Mike Smith (above), whose photography we feature below (from top to bottom): steamy days upstairs at the church, a brutal Tigers loss with a delightful view, a dangerous night of fireworks, desolate streets and a long bike ride.
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