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Red-bellied woodpecker in a maple tree in our backyard. The light is special today, as it appears shine from every direction. At times it’s almost blinding. Couple that with the freezing gusts of wind, and it’s amazing I can keep my eyes open for any length of time at all.
As I walk back into the house, a flash of something else catches my attention. A perfect winter scene if there ever was such a thing. The camera attached to my wrist is set up for video. It will have to do. I’m sure he’s spotted me by now, just as I spotted him. But he’s not flying away. Now I have a decision to ponder. Do I make the best of the situation with the camera I have on hand? Or do I run back inside and switch to my telephoto that I know is just inside the door? I give in and make the switch, and in hindsight, it's the right call.
These are the moments I enjoy the most as a photographer. The times when light and subject align and I have to access all of my learned technique in a matter of seconds.
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Saturday, October 25, 2025: The light was really nice this morning. Fog lingered over the surface of the lake as the sun began to rise over the trees. A shaft of sunlight broke through a gap in the tree-line further up the lake and backlit a small group of five ducks that were floating by.
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Couldn't resist this group of cones at work.
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Lately I’ve been thinking about how much better my photography feels when it’s part of my daily life. The last time I was really in a groove with my camera was during a stretch when I was shooting every single day. It wasn’t about perfect light or grand subjects. It was about showing up, paying attention.
I think rebuilding that muscle starts with slowing down and noticing more things like the small shifts in light, the everyday scenes that quietly ask to be seen. The next step is the hardest... just pressing the button. So much of photography isn’t technical at all, it’s about being present, trusting your instincts, and giving yourself permission to make the picture.
I’ve caught myself hesitating too often lately, second-guessing whether a moment is “worth” photographing. But the truth is, the act of taking the photo is what sharpens the eye. The practice is the point.
As I pulled into the driveway after work yesterday, I noticed the girls’ bikes scattered in front of the garage. I must have just missed them playing out in front of the house. My mind immediately jumped to William Eggleston’s famous tricycle photograph, not because my picture resembles it, but because it reminded me how ordinary objects can hold weight.
My photo isn’t iconic, but that’s not the point. The important thing is that I saw it, was present, and took the picture.
As I developed the image in Lightroom this morning, a metaphor for childhood started to emerge. Right now, the girls are still little, and these small, everyday scenes are their world. One day, they won’t be little anymore. These moments will pass. What matters is being here to see them, to feel them, and to take it all in while it lasts.
Right now, the girls are still little, and these small, everyday scenes are their world. -
A break in the clouds let a sliver of sunlight through on Saturday morning. It was a brief moment that lasted for all of about five minutes. The light fell across the lake opposite the sun. Warm and directional, the kind of light that reveals shape and texture instead of just color. At the back of Spruce Lake, warm tones of early fall foliage glowed against a cool, cloudy sky. The contrast was sharp. My favorite image came when I zoomed in to 600mm. The treeline became a wall of color that was dense, layered, almost geological. I left just a sliver of the lake at the bottom of the frame to ground it. The result reminded me of western cliff faces, even though this is home.
My favorite image from the set. Zoomed in to 600mm the treeline becomes a wall of color. This scene reminds me of cliff faces out west. 
The back of Spruce lake in that directional light. The warm tones of early fall foliage really pop against the cooler dark sky above. 
A break in the clouds above lets a sliver of sunlight in. The result is warm, directional light opposite the sun. -
"Look dad! A hawk in that tree!" is what Eleanor said as we sat in the living room waiting for the bus this Wednesday morning. It's quite satisfying that my 3 1/2 year old is conditioned to spot a bird at distance, let alone discern between a hawk, eagle, or other raptor.
Cooper's Hawk perched in a tree in our neighbor's yard -
I’m thinking a little bit about why landscape photography might be important. During a photowalk this past weekend, One of the things the host mentioned was the importance of photographing the pine barrens with intent. After much contemplation, this idea dovetails nicely with my thoughts on a mission for my photography.
It's one thing to make photographs because you think people will like them. I think that's the trap, myself included, that a lot of online photographers have fallen into. I want my photography to be more intentional and focus on subjects I find interesting or worth preserving. And not about something that will impress someone else. My thoughts are constantly swirling with this struggle between expression and performance. Earlier this year I wrote:
"For most of my time with a camera I’ve felt a pressure to produce “content” or “work”. Even a simple activity like wandering around my backyard with a camera, I felt compelled to produce images that would maximize engagement. I’ve felt a pressure to maintain visibility and showcase my creativity, not for my own satisfaction, but for an imaginary audience or some elusive standard of success.
Despite the odd job over the last 14 years, I don’t make a living with my photography. Running the marketing department for a small company, my skills are a nice thing to have, but not a requirement for success. Photography, as a hobby, should be a source of joy and a way to communicate how I see the world."
Putting it all Into Practice
A simple patch of ferns becomes a study in texture and tone. On a quiet photowalk in Estell Manor Park, Atlantic County, New Jersey, our group paused at a classic Pine Barrens cedar swamp. Through the thicket of tall grass I noticed this cluster of ferns growing on the edge of the water. A tangle of fronds catches a clean shaft of light that makes their midribs glow against the deep green growth below.
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I'm watching the girls by myself this weekend. After a some pizza and brownies, we venture outside to burn off those empty calories. Eventually the girls find their bubble machines and the yard is quickly filled with little splotches of air-puffed soap. I catch Sophia in the midst of them, the last bit of evening sun is backlighting her hair and interesting shoice of headwear.
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On this particular Sunday we took a walk through the neighborhood and the woods that separate the two developments. There is a small wooded cut through with a dirt path that splits two main roads. It had been raining for most of the day so it was nice to finally get out and stretch our legs. I don’t know why, but as the day wore on I had this nagging urge to use my camera and the walk provided the right opportunity. As the departure time for our walk approached my procrastination began to creep in and I almost didn’t bring my camera. Luckily, I didn’t listen to my brain and let my better judgment guide my decision. What started out as a fairly grey walk, devoid of any really interesting light, turned into a fruitful adventure as we walked back to the house.
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The more I think about my photographic purpose, the more I think it centers around the idea of New Jersey being the ugly state. For as long as I can remember I've always been a contrarian, and there is definitely something invigorating about exploring the contradictory idea of there being beautiful scenes in an ugly place.
I spend a lot of time consuming photography online and I'm starting to find it odd that the mostly densely populated state in the country is vastly under represented. Maybe that is my mission in this phase of my journey?
The more I think about it, I moved from the crowded part of the state to a less crowded part where there is definitely more nature to be observed. As a photographer, I kind of accomplished what I always wanted to do. I used to dream of having a wide open space to photograph sunsets. I have that now, so I'm a little bemused as to why I'm feeling adrift with my photography at times.
Red-Bellied Woodpecker
Ducks in the Mist
Odd Man Out
The Habit
Sunrise
Cooper's Hawk
Intent
Saturday Sunset
Walk in the Woods
A Mission
104 more posts can be found in the archive.
This site was last published on 2025-12-31T14:38:47.008Z