I stayed behind on a photo walk and wandered a quiet forest trail at Dungeness Wildlife Refuge. This post is about that unexpected moment of stillness and how photography helps me reconnect with what matters.

Lately, life has felt nonstop. Between work and obligations, I lost track of my own breath. This photo and the poem that followed are a reminder that sometimes the best direction is simply to pause and be present.

When life feels overwhelming and dark, even a small light can make a world of difference. This post reflects on the quiet strength of those who keep showing up, even when they don’t know how much it means to others.

A peaceful sunset and an unexpected detour remind me why I call the Olympic Peninsula home. What began as a hopeful search for black bears turned into something quieter, but just as meaningful. A golden hour view from the hills above Port Angeles.

Driving toward the Hoh Rainforest, I didn’t expect to stop. But at a quiet turnout along Lake Crescent, I saw something (someone) Robert would’ve noticed.

I’ve had to let go of the life I thought I was building. Something unexpected shifted my course, and I’ve been quiet here while I found my footing again. This photo, taken in the chaos of wind and water, felt like the right place to start sharing again. Not everything broken stays broken—and sometimes, after the break, something new can root.

After revisiting an old photo I took in Victoria, I discovered how a shift to black and white changed everything. The result is Tiles in Time—a quiet, haunting moment captured in light and shadow, paired with a poem born from memory and stillness.

A quiet moment on the trail from Storm King Ranger Station to Barnes Creek where ferns, evening light, and a slow kind of becoming offered a reminder I didn’t know I needed.

I caught a Rufous hummingbird in a rare still moment—then noticed a tiny midge fly photobombing in the background. This post shares the photo, a poem I wrote about it, and a little reflection on how nature always seems to sneak in a bit of quiet humor when you least expect it.

In the golden morning light, a blooming cherry tree offered a quiet reminder: some of life’s most beautiful moments ask only to be noticed.

In the fading light of Webster Woods, an old gear offered a quiet lesson: some stories endure, not through grandeur, but through quiet strength and memory.

A quiet reflection on the unseen strength that holds us together, inspired by rusted bolts found during an Olympic Photo Club walk in Sequim, WA.

Winter lingers, and my photography feels darker than I want it to be. I’m caught between seasons, longing for the lightness of spring while still wrapped in winter’s quiet. A rainy photo walk at Salt Creek reflected that contrast—moody, heavy, yet still beautiful. My poem The Silent Witness explores this theme of endurance and waiting, much like the forest itself.

Tonight, I finally went out with my camera for the first time this month, and for some reason, I kept seeing faces everywhere. It’s always interesting how some days, the smallest details or unexpected shapes seem to stand out more than others. This particular face caught my eye, weathered and silent, yet full of presence.

I couldn’t help but imagine a story behind it—of something ancient, something lost and waiting. That feeling inspired this poem, The Watcher in the Wood. It’s a reflection of how time, nature, and memory can intertwine, leaving behind whispers in the things we pass by every day.

Just wanted to share this moment and the poem it sparked—do you ever see faces in unexpected places?

Winter was long, not just in the chill of the air but in the weight of everything it carried. As February fades, I reflect on the season that tested patience and endurance—and the quiet hope that now begins to stir. Spring isn’t just warmth returning; it’s renewal, a reminder that even after the hardest days, light and growth will come again. This post is a farewell to winter’s heaviness and a step forward into brighter days.

"The Spaces We Keep" is a poem about the hidden parts of ourselves—the dreams, fears, and secrets we guard behind closed doors. It explores the tension between how others see us and who we truly are, asking whether we’ll ever find someone who sees past the surface. I wrote this to honor the quiet, unspoken layers of our lives and to remind us that we’re all more than the stories others tell about us. It’s an invitation to look deeper, both at others and at ourselves.

“The Edge of Letting Go" is a story about fear, freedom, and the courage to take flight. Through two gulls, Len and Kai, it explores the tension between safety and growth. Are you standing on the edge, unsure of the next step? Read more and let the wind guide you. 🌊✨

Some days, photography is about more than just the image—it’s about being in the moment, feeling the quiet shift of the world around you, and capturing the in-between.

A planned photo shoot at the Dungeness Schoolhouse turned into a battle against freezing winds on the Dungeness Levee. With gusts too strong to fight, we lasted only thirty minutes before calling it quits. On my way home, I stopped at one of my favorite barns on Towne Road, capturing a quiet moment that made the struggle worth it.

After seeing Lake Crescent Lodge covered in snow, last Thursday, the eerie quiet stayed with me. There was something haunting about the way the cabins stood empty, their lights dark except for one. That lingering image, combined with the weight of winter pressing in, made me think of the legend of the Lady of the Lake—how the waters of Lake Crescent once hid a terrible secret, and how some say her spirit still lingers.