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Learning to see. Not just what I want to see. But what is there before me. Real and raw. And then find the beauty within, hidden as it may be at times.
Lessons learned looking through the lens.

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(this inspired by the work of Harold Reinisch on his blog Okanagan Okanogan.

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Light. Such a fascinating subject to focus on. I’d like to learn to capture a person’s light. Few opportunities present themselves here and now. There will be time. In the meanwhile, I turn to the mountain. Even on these days of long nights, with falling snow and white washed sky.

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Learning to see. I’ve spent years here looking from afar. Now I find myself zooming in. Looking closer, deeper, slower. Does this have to do with age, patience or simply perspective?

The intimate point of view. Am I bringing you in there with me? Into the trees, a little lighter now than last year, sparser now with needles fallen from the dying spruce, and bare aspen trees tipped over and piled like match sticks in places. Seems like a new one across the trail each time we take our snowshoes through the trees. A nice place to sit and rest.

The camera – teaching me to slow down, maybe even stop, look closely, see the details. Breathe into an intimate gaze. I have seen the landscape. Know the view. Coming home from a snowshoe yesterday and my mountain, my muse, is spread out before me like a naked model, tempting, teasing, taunting. I lift my camera, held my breath and really look. I had taken the same picture before, I was sure. Probably more than once. Same snow, same light, same time of day on this very same day in December. I do not press the shutter and move on.

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Learning to look close, close enough to touch, to feel, to smell and taste. To share that taste with you. Leave it sweet and bitter on your tongue.
It takes patience for me. Like being aware of my breath. A walking meditation.
Finding light on the darkest day. A metaphor for living.

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