It was March 29th, Maundy Thursday in fact, when I contacted Angelo. Angelo, you see, is "un Hermano Penitente", a penitent brother of an order of pious men whose legacy stretches back to medieval Spain. As part of my research for a story, I had contacted Angelo about his brotherhood. Los Penitentes are very private, preferring to practice their rites in isolation in a windowless adobe building they call "La Morada". However, once a year, on Good Friday during Holy Week, they

In the late-dimming moments of twilight I sat beside a child's tomb So somber, silent- that coming night So forlorn and so lonely the child's tomb Yet in that mirthless moment Gathered round memoriam stone A host of watchful faces Ever-seeing, protectful-watching here and beyond The child's soul is resting Here there is no pain Only silent evening-dimming And cold-night coming and stone and graves "Sight Beyond" © 2018 Tim Stevens #photography #graves #cemetery #35mmphotograp

Continuing with my dersert travels I divert from my usual photographic fare, but perhaps it is not that far off. Last week, I recounted my experience in Terlingua, TX during Día De Los Muertos. That same day, five hour perhaps before I walked under that field of stars and luminous graves, I embarked on a short hike. Taking a tip from a local, I set out on a dirt that path that took me past the famous Perry Mansion, once the estate of the Terlinqua quicksilver tycoon, Howard E

Many ancient cultures believe that when the body dies the soul rises to the heavens and joins the stars. Late on the night of November 2nd, Día de los Muertos or Day of the Dead, I wandered through the little cemetery of Terlingua, TX. Terlingua is a ghost town, barely an hour from the Mexico border formed in the late 1800s when elemental quicksilver was discovered under the red, dusty rocks of the desert valley. The miners and their families that occupied Terlingua were larg

Over the River, My Darling - these words, evocative, mysterious and sad, wrought in marble called out to me in the warm, still air of Oakwood Cemetery. I drew near. An image, two hands, clasped, and I am struck by a sense of reaching, an impossible distance- over the river. Yet these hands touch. They seemed to me a projection, an act of divination, this image, these words carved in cold stone, calling out to the Beloved to bridge the Gap Eternal, a vessel in word-form set wi