Mindful Photography Workshop

Spring is a truly joyful time to be outside. For weeks I found myself attracted to the fresh greens throughout the forest, lit softly by ever-changing, partially clouded skies.

This mature oak lives among younger trees in a patch of dense, chaotic scrub that I would typically avoid walking through. However, the new translucent leaves behind the tree appeared to envelop it in a jubilant spiral-like pattern, which made me think of some kind of celebration. The tree almost appeared to spin or sway, sending confetti out in all directions.

The light was tricky, but only about ten minutes were needed for clouds to block the direct sunlight and create a soft box effect on the scene. This was perfect for the type of image I wanted to make. In processing, I burned a bit of the lower corners and edges, and raised the luminance of the leaves to bring them out a bit more.

In The Living Mountain, Nan Shepherd writes “... the mountain is one and indivisible, and rock, soil, water and air are no more integral to it than what grows from the soil and breathes the air. All are aspects of one entity, the living mountain. The disintegrating rock, the nurturing rain, the quickening sun, the seed, the root, the bird – all are one.”

One of most valuable truths nature teaches is that we are all connected to each other and to our planet. There is no separation aside from that formed by the imaginary boundaries we are taught and the physical walls we manufacture to separate and contain ourselves. Society in the modern technical age finds itself more isolated than ever despite humans’ fundamentally social nature.

This cluster of worn boulders sits at the edge of a cliff I enjoy hiking along. This particular day I was drawn to the blue softness of the scene, as much a reflection of the diffused light as it was a testament to my feelings of malaise. However in this moment, and ones like it, I believe it was my sense of connection with the whole of nature, and even to humankind (despite my solitary process) that stopped me to photograph.

By spending time alone in nature, my mind is free to wander and land at different points on my mental map of the world. Destinations are as varied as memories and future hopes, obligations and expectations, or sometimes just vague feelings. When a scene like this syncs up with my prevailing mood, the whole process of going out awakens something real in me. It is an absolutely sacred experience.

Patterns of lichen crisscross damp sandstone formations tucked discretely into one of my favorite places to visit. I’ve scrambled up boulders to explore this phenomenon in the past, but this was my first visit during rainy weather. Moving about was sketchy, but the rain caused the colors of the sandstone to appear more vibrant than I could remember.

These colonies of lichen interest me because of how they have followed lines of least resistance to reconnect with themselves, creating fun textures and unexpected shapes. It’s fascinating how lichen adapts, and how it contributes to the long term health of countless other species it seems to have little to do with.

Over time, acid secreted from the lichen will break down the stone it resides upon, and the minerals will gradually trickle down to the forest floor. The resulting rich soil will nourish generations of plants, and by extension animals, for generations.

Everything is connected.

Photos don’t normally happen when I walk through this section of woods. I've always found it nice to look at as I pass by, but it's never felt quite right to stop and spend much time with.

The sun on this particular winter morning provided just the right amount of light between passing clouds overhead which allowed a soft glow to reach the forest floor at an angle. Dormant plants covering the forest floor became backlit and reminded me of swampy mist or even thick snow blanketing the ground. So often, the trunks of trees meet with the ground abruptly, so it was nice to see such a soft transition.

After I played with a few different focal lengths and positions, I settled on a telephoto and vertical composition to tighten and accentuate the trunks and their relationship with the floor. There was no mist (something I had hoped to find) but I am somewhat proud of the fact that I've managed to make the most of some forest scenes without it.

The rest of the day was spent tromping around a large boulder field beyond these trees, making strong coffee and enjoying a hot backpacking meal with no one but a few noisy birds and squirrels for company. After a busy holiday season it was pure medicine.

A fitting photo for the rainy weather we’re having this weekend, taken a few weeks ago on a short outing. Winter is my favorite time of year. The plant life all seems distilled and simplified, and on damp days the subdued colors don’t complete with each other like they do in the warmer months. Everything is resting now and allowing nature to run its course after a year of thriving and surviving. Respite well deserved.

The Wichita Mountains of Southwest Oklahoma have fascinated me since I was a little kid. This past October I was fortunate to visit the historical wildlife refuge on a ten-day solo visit. I stayed in a small cabin in Medicine Park, OK, right outside the refuge, and managed to hike about seven days during my stay. I also retraced some meaningful places from memories of visiting my grandparents with my family, just down the road in Lawton and Ft. Sill.

I’ve written a little article and posted my favorite images from the trip under my Projects tab. I hope you’ll give it a look.

At the close of a recent afternoon hike I noticed an interesting pattern in the wood of a fallen tree laying to the side of the trail. The repeating patterns of cracks in the wood caught my attention quickly, but when I looked closer I found an interesting ridge line cutting diagonally across the exposed wood. I imagined the contours of a range of mountains, or the fault between tectonic plates slowly converging at the bottom of the ocean. I played with different angles and heights for a good thirty minutes, wiping sweat from my face as I worked. I arrived at a composition that emphasizes the diagonal “rift” as well as the subtle greens, oranges and browns that tone the long-dead specimen.

Geology doesn’t seem to figure prominently in the work of photographers from my corner of the world, at least as much as it does in portfolios created in western states. It’s always a treat, then, to encounter fun shapes, patterns and textures among the ancient structures of our local bedrock.

The field of geology fascinates me due to the lessons of time it teaches. Understandably, many are overwhelmed by humankind’s tiny blink of existence compared to the infinite cosmos. I find it perhaps even more surprising when the timeline of our species is dwarfed by the great age of the mere planet we inhabit.

This small cave once sheltered me and my family from a thunderstorm while we were out on a hike. It’s a special place to me for that reason. Recently I entered it once again, drawn to the warm reflected light entering from the outside. This contrasted nicely with the reddish purple sandstone within which was enhanced by the clear blue sky overhead. I was reminded of the famous slot canyons of the American southwest, and wondered whether anyone had ever visited before the strong Summer storm that drove us inside over a year before.

I recently followed a fellow nature photographer’s advice in order to get physically closer to my subject while zooming far into it, using a telephoto lens stacked with both a teleconverter and macro extension tube. Technical things usually don’t motivate me to photograph, but I admit this new knowledge did help me to visualize this simple scene. It reminded me of my earlier days during COVID when I was teaching myself skills and absorbing tons of information about photography. In other words, I was like a kid in a candy shop all over again. It was like a light went on in my mind.

In terms of composition, I found the leaf’s texture and color interesting, particularly against the green mossy bedding where it had come to rest. I also found the twigs to be interesting supporting elements in the overall design. The leaf, though dried and brown, appears exalted and special as though nature reveres its sacrifice.

This image was made one Tuesday evening right as the sun was just starting to disappear behind the nearby hillside. I’ve enjoyed visiting this particular creek in all seasons, but winter tends to be my favorite. I believe the lack of vibrant green leaves helps to distill the structure of the place, while the lower sun reflects more colorfully off the clouds. From a technical standpoint, I have been enjoying practicing wide angle photography again and this perspective inspired me to carefully compose an image. While I worked on my laptop, my camera sat on its tripod waiting for the best golden hour light to appear. When it did, all I had to do was stroll to the water’s edge, adjust my shutter speed, and press the shutter button. An afternoon well spent.

Similar to Old Moon-Eye, this image was made by shooting straight up at a sandstone ceiling. This one happened to be covered in an interesting system of tree roots and ivy, and early morning light gave the small scene some interesting contrast. The diagonal roots and shadows, combined with a pop of green leaves, made this detail well worth stopping to examine and eventually frame up.

For lack of a better name, I decided on this one after thinking back to this sunny winter afternoon when I stood foolishly in a field by myself for hours. There was something truly special about the weather that day in early February.

Low humidity, cool temperatures paired with direct sun, and colors and textures that seemed to pop everywhere I looked in an otherwise unspecial mountain meadow. There seemed to be a fun pattern to the golden sunlit grass that begged to be photographed so I sat on this scene for a good hour playing with various focal lengths and positions, as the light shifted around me.

Call me foolish but connecting with nature in this way proves to be one of the most enriching practices in my life, time and time again.

Rain brought atmosphere and rich color to a favorite patch about an hour from my home, and this peculiar tree stood out to me. Located off trail along a small creek, I struggled somewhat to compose the photo due to clusters of small trees and vines (which I was careful not to trample). I named the photo after a monster dreamed up by H.P. Lovecraft, also known as Shub-Niggurath, “a perverse fertility deity, said to appear as an enormous cloudy mass which extrudes black tentacles, slime-dripping mouths, and short, writhing goat legs.”