Photography as Meditation:

How I See the World Differently

I thought I had walked away from photography.

During COVID, I sold everything. My DSLR, the lenses, the carefully packed gear I once carried everywhere. It felt like closing a chapter.

But here’s the strange part. The moment I let it go, something else opened. Not a return to the old way of shooting, but a different kind of seeing. Simpler. Lighter. More present.

Sometimes letting go is how we find our way back.

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In high school, I didn’t have a fancy camera. Just a Fuji DL-200 that came with me on long hikes through the Appalachian Mountains. The prints were grainy, imperfect. But they reminded me I had seen something worth remembering.

Later, I stepped into a darkroom for the first time. The red glow. The sharp chemical tang. The hush as an image appeared beneath the surface. I remember how my breath slowed while I waited.

There’s a sacred stillness in that kind of waiting.
Photography rewards attention, not speed.

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Now, it’s just me and my phone. No lenses. No pressure. Just presence.

The act of lifting my camera has become quieter. Less about perfection. More about noticing. A way to be still inside a moving world.

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Some of my favorite images are the simplest.
Not the most dramatic. Not the most technically perfect. Just the ones that made me stop.

The simplest images often hold the deepest stillness.

A pitcher mid-throw, motion smeared across the frame like memory.

Two figures silhouetted against the lake in the quiet geometry of a museum window.

A painted horizon, captured not with a brush, but by moving the camera like a painter’s hand

A stream, its motion softened into mist, framed by trees that have likely outlived us all.

My wife’s hand holding a translucent butterfly, its shadow whole against warm pavement.

Each one was taken with my phone.
Each one asking the same question: Were you paying attention?

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Photography has taught me how to see—and how to be.

You frame the shot. Then you let it go.
You wait.
You trust.
You hope.

You don’t take the photo. The photo takes you.

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Looking back, I realize photography has always helped me hold onto what matters.

It brings order to the noise.
It turns fleeting into remembered.
It whispers, this mattered.

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What helps you see more clearly?
Maybe it's a camera.
Maybe it’s a notebook.
Maybe it’s simply your breath.

Whatever it is, I hope you find it.
And when you do, I hope you pause.
Long enough to notice the light.

Feel free to share in the comments if you like.