I have always been a reflective person, examining my life, my faith, my practice.

And recently I have authored ten affirmations about my life and who I am and intend to be. I'll not share them, but I have also been considering how important it is to live in the now. The past is comforting or could be bent to be better ( and I have so much past). I am so practiced at living in the future and imagining something different. But I can't actually live in the past or the future. I really only have now.

It may be why I am attracted to the camera and the immediate moment. True, I can look at that image years later and remember that moment. But a photo freezes that instant, that slice of now, and can be interpreted, analyzed, even shared. It may make now last longer.

Something more to think about.

Not much mail comes any more, not letters anyway.

There's email, and texts, and twitters, and probably a hundred other ways to communicate electronically. But letters, personal and hand-written are rare. When was the last time you got a letter from someone that was not soliciting your financial contribution or wanting to enroll you in a new credit card or reporting the safety of the water supply or detailing the failure of the government to do anything; a letter from friend or lover or family that was simply sharing news or emotion?

When did you last receive a letter written in cursive? On real stationary?

I found that it takes thinking and time to write a letter. And it takes a stamp, how much is first class postage?

Every other method is faster, but to have a letter, in someone's handwriting is a treasure. Well, it could be.

Peoria in June.

This was my view from my suite in the Pere Marquette Hotel looking west toward Methodist Hospital in 2011. Although I was busy nearly every moment of the day, I managed to get a few photographs that day. The sky often attracts my attention. I was noticing the clouds this morning and this evening from my backyard. Every moment is different, unique. The clouds three years ago rolled across the sky. I've enhanced them a bit to suggest the impact that view had on me. I remember the sky that day and little that happened inside the Convention Center. I should have spent more time with my camera.

Tomorrow, the Annual Conference Session begins again. I hope some will find opportunity to step outside and look up.

Did you ever watch fish swim in the water over your head?

Maddy, at the Tennessee Aquarium.

My son will hate this; that's probably too harsh. He just dislikes peeling paint.

But I find it fascinating: the texture, the colors, the shadows. You can even see the outlines of numbers that were painted there long ago.

The good news is that the fascination has skipped a generation and Maddy took a photo of the same railroad car with her iPad.

This is sweet!

How much stuff has fell through these caboose steps through the years?

I can imagine coins dropping through the grate, and keys, and important notes, and small bolts and assorted hardware. And if the train is moving, it's gone forever. I thought it amazing to look through the grate and see the railroad bed. It would have been really terrific to stand there and watch the ties speed by as the train was moving. Reminds me of the deck grid on the Brookport, Illinois bridge over the Ohio River, except that the holes are nearly large enough for a soda can to drop through. It's a holey experience of another kind. Those who have fear of heights are reluctant to trust the near-invisibility of a bridge or a step that's held passengers for decades. I'd just hate to be the first to find out that security is just an illusion.

Wednesday was Chattanooga Day.

So after we took the train ride (all 6 miles), we drove downtown to the Tennessee Aquarium, which is a multi-building complex on the riverfront. While there were lots of attractions, we were all fascinated by the jellyfish. And made me glad I swim in my pool rather than the ocean. I'll leave the ocean for those creatures that are supposed to swim there. I suspect I'll be sharing more images in the future from here.

I don't know much about fishing. Wrong, I know almost nothing about fishing.

My step-father, who loved to fish, would take me fishing occasionally. I found it was a good place to visit. And he was a wonderful man. But I recall that when I would start to catch fish (and he didn't), he would move the boat. He was a lake fisherman. In later years, he would just bait the hooks of a couple of poles attached to the dock, throw in the line, and go back up to the house. He would check later to see if he caught anything.

Now, this fisherman appears to be fly-fishing. I suspect someone will straighten me out on this, if I'm off-base. I wanted to photograph him because of his orange shirt, and his tanned legs, and the orange logo on his cap. And here he was standing on top of a waterfall and watching his fly (hook) float downstream. And he'd gather it up and flip it out on the water and let it float downstream.

He dressed the part, but I began to believe he wasn't any better at this than I was. But I do recall someone telling me once, "Catching fish ain't the point." And "A bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work."

This kind of wonderment occurs when you watch a fellow watch his fly float downstream.

And then, there's this: "When we cast our bread upon the waters, we can presume that someone downstream whose face we may never see will benefit from our action, even as we enjoy the gifts sent to us from a donor upstream." Maya Angelou