Prairie Oaks Institute

-
Thanks to Chris Johnson, the Center for Servant Leadership at Gustavus, and the amazing and beautiful Prairie Oaks Institute in Belle Plaine for an incredible weekend: retreat, rejuvination, reflection, and old and new friends--"live encounters," every one.


Comments

  1. AmyOctober 11, 2011 at 8:46 AM

    Oooooh, that looks like someplace I need to go. Have you been to the Richard T. Anderson hiking trails in EP? So gorgeous.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Emily BrisseOctober 11, 2011 at 11:40 AM

    I have not been there! Sounds like an adventure. What a lovely weekend the last one way, huh? :)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Wild_BillOctober 11, 2011 at 7:34 PM

    Photographs kind of say it all here, don't they. Looks wonderful.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Emily BrisseOctober 11, 2011 at 8:51 PM

    T'was, Bill. T'was in all kinds of ways. Thanks, as always, for the comment!

    ReplyDelete
  5. Minnesota Prairie RootsOctober 17, 2011 at 2:32 PM

    Lovely, lovely images, Emily. You know I'm a major fan of sharing the details in scenes through photography and you've done that well here.

    Even though I really don't like roosters much at all, I certainly do like your photo of one.

    BTW, nice to share the MinnPost weekend photo round-up with you again.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Emily BrisseOctober 17, 2011 at 3:44 PM

    I agree, Audrey. It's fun to have photos do the talking sometimes.

    PS: Your rooster comment makes me believe there's a story in there somewhere... :)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Baby Boy

-
Image
Right now the side of his face rests against my belly, skin to skin, his warmth magnified by mine. It is a wonder, an absolute awe-filled thing, that just days ago he was on the other side of me, tucked away and unseeable, a secret. Elliot. Elliot with the head full of hair. Elliot with the fifty-eight eyelashes. Elliot with the rounded nose that dips into rounded cheeks that slope to the tiny chin that quivers when he cries, lifts when he smiles in his sleep. A landscape. Elliot. Tiny boy so like and unlike all the other boys who have been born before. So like and unlike whatever small person I imagined my own son to be. Perfection is a rare if not impossible thing, but how could he not be, right now, so young, so soft, exactly as he is here, breathing in and out, making the sounds that all mothers and fathers know as first-speak. Secrets. He is revealing them to me, unspooling them by the minute, by the number of his sighs, and they tangle around my legs and body until I am war
Read more