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.

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.