After coming home from traveling, it often feels like the trip was just a lovely dream. I was never actually where I was, the things I experienced never really happened. Until I revisit my images: then each photo takes me rushing back and I relive the sights, the smells, the sounds, and the people.
I can feel just how cold the wind was, how my hair whipped around my face. I smell again the sharp, salty sea air, and thrill at the sight of the little sailboat, happy sails full of icy wind, in the middle of an overwhelmingly large sea. What enormous creatures swim just below the surface, but out of view? What mysterious mountains lie in the distance? Why do the waves really form?
Sailboat on the Salish Sea
Copyright image by Loura Lawrence. See: Salish Sea/Straits of Juan de Fuca at Loura’s photo website.

What is this new feeling of local and national pride; in cities and buildings I never knew existed; in hidden places nearby that are surprisingly beautiful and peaceful? Who are these lovely people I’ve known forever, yet not known? My family, my friends, my neighbors, my people? What are these intricate pieces of art, and how (really) did they come to exist? The world for me has become both a smaller and a much larger place, since my year of traveling began last July. It has been a wonderful adventure of discovery. And I don’t intend to stop now!

This past year, I’ve been blessed to have traveled to Portland, Oregon; Cannon Beach and Seaside, Oregon; Washington State; Baltimore, Maryland; Washington D.C.; Eastern Kentucky; Atlanta, Georgia; Newport, Kentucky/Cincinnati, Ohio; and most recently, North Carolina.

You can see my images at: Please check back often, as I am sometimes slow to post galleries (I still have a lot of photos from July, 2017 to post!), and as I continue my travels.

Future trips include: Providence, RI; Cincinnati, Ohio; Washington State part 2; New Orleans, LA part 2; Yellowstone National Park; and more (hopefully)!


Dear Anonymous

When I was younger, I loved to snuggle into my parents’ recliner and read my grandmother’s antique, leather-bound book of poetry. I never met my grandmother; she passed away before I was born, but it seems I inherited her love of reading (and her stature). My dad was very protective of this book, and kept it in a glass curio cabinet. It became a rite of passage when I was allowed to read it.

Titled simply, “Favorite Poems” in gold lettering, I loved to feel the buttery soft leather cover, inhale the unique smell of old-book pages, and especially to read the literary treasures within. I was so careful holding this little book of history and memories, my hands nearly shook turning the delicate pages. I felt so grown-up reading those old poems in the living room by myself, especially on cold, winter nights. I imagine I might have lit a candle or two, just to finish the scene. My favorite poem was The Burial of Sir John Moore, and at one point I had it memorized.

I would read a little, then skim the contents pages for titles or authors that sounded interesting. And for the longest time afterward, the young girl I was would think about that little book of poems and be amazed at what a prolific author “Anon” was!

Photo Courtesy of my Dad