Home.

Over the years I have called many different places home. All of them very different, from a Vegas street lined with cookie-cutter houses to a quaint 2 story on a Wyoming drive. In each house, whatever the address, there were some commonalities; all were full of love, peace, and warmth. Home has always been a place of safety and refuge.
The other day I decided to explore the city that I now call home. I grabbed my Canon, hopped on one of our motorcycles, and off I went on a leisurely ride through the quiet streets of South Weber/Ogden. Here are some of the photos:

My trusty steed.

Temples remind us where our true Home is.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated, with no before and after,

But a lifetime burning in every moment

And not the lifetime of one man only

But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.

There is a time for the evening under starlight,

A time for the evening under lamplight

(The evening with the photograph album).

Love is most nearly itself

When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers

Here or there does not matter

We must be still and still moving

Into another intensity

For a further union, a deeper communion

Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,

The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters

Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

T.S. Eliot