Relearning to See

I’m standing in front of the lighthouse on Brier Island, Nova Scotia, squinting at my cell phone screen. It’s windy and bright, the air thick with salt and the faint sound of waves meeting rocks far below. I know exactly how I want this image to feel: romantic, adventurous, the kind of photo that makes people ache to stand here themselves. But when I look at the image I’ve captured, it’s flat, just a snapshot. It’s good enough for a phone, but not enough to satisfy what I’m chasing.

Back then, I believed my limitations were technical. I wanted that magazine-cover perfection, the luminous edges, and the carefully composed beauty that seemed effortless in professional shots. It wasn’t about vanity; it was hunger, curiosity, a need to understand why some images made me feel so deeply, while others, mine, left me cold.

That hunger led me far from Nova Scotia. It took me through portraiture, prints, and precise compositions. I learned to manipulate focus, perfect sharpness, and shape light. But as the images improved technically, I noticed they didn’t always satisfy the deeper craving that had sparked this journey.

Years later, in the soft, uncertain gloom of Ireland’s Doolough Valley, something shifted. There was mood there, texture in the imperfection, feeling that I couldn’t craft through technical precision alone. I stopped obsessing over sharpness or clarity and instead allowed myself to capture the subtle, imperfect poetry of what I saw. And somehow, that’s when the photographs finally became enough.

Those photographs in the Doolough Valley were only the beginning. They hinted at something I couldn’t yet fully articulate: that mood, emotion, and honest imperfection could mean more than the most technically precise capture ever would. But clarity often arrives slowly, glimpsed only through layers of time and experimentation.

So I traveled more. I took portraits, faces softened by twilight, smiles blurred by movement, laughter too fleeting to hold sharp focus. I walked my own neighborhood again and again, camera in hand, noticing subtle dramas hidden in familiar spaces. In the years that passed, technical standards loosened their grip, making room for a quieter pursuit of feeling. Each frame became less about proving skill, and more about translating moments into memories someone else could hold.

Now, I’m sitting in an Airbnb in Vero Beach, Florida. Sunlight pours through the window, warm and nostalgic, recalling childhood trips with family, salt on my skin, sand gritty between fingers, voices carrying over gentle waves. My photographs here are not about perfection at all. They’re about memory, connection, about capturing the intangible threads of past and present. Kids splashing at the water’s edge, boats drifting lazily, a shoreline shimmering in heat and remembered joy.

Today, the images serve a different master: not the demands of precision, but the gentle, powerful pull of storytelling. The camera is less a tool for documentation and more an instrument of empathy, a means of inviting others to step fully into my world. To see, for a moment, what I see. To feel the sun’s warmth, hear laughter carried by wind, and taste the bittersweet nostalgia of days slipping slowly away.

Writing and photography have always been intertwined for me, two languages telling the same story from different angles. Early on, photography was secondary, an illustration to support words. Later, images stood alone as crafted statements, precise and carefully composed. But now, at last, the two have begun speaking the same language. Each informs and elevates the other, creating something far richer than either could achieve alone.

When I sit down to write, it’s not just the memory of a place or an event I’m trying to translate into words. I’m reaching deeper, toward the intangible, toward the emotional essence that makes each experience linger long after it’s over. The photographs I take now reflect that same search. They’re softer, more intuitive, concerned less with technical clarity than with emotional honesty. They act as bridges, inviting readers into the heart of my experience.

I think of a recent afternoon on the beach here in Vero Beach. The camera was with me, but it wasn’t dominating my attention. Instead, I was feeling the rhythm of the waves, watching families with their children, absorbing laughter and movement and simple joy. When I eventually lifted the camera, the images came effortlessly, not because they were technically flawless, but because they reflected exactly how it felt to be there, sunlight fading slowly, the day gently exhaling toward dusk.

Later, sitting down to write, the photographs became touchstones, anchoring my memory and emotion. They reminded me of tiny details easily overlooked, the way children gathered shells, the slow rise of tides, how the sand cooled gradually beneath my feet. With each word, I sought not merely to describe but to recreate the feeling, drawing readers into the very texture of the moment itself.

This, I’ve realized, is the true power of blending words and images: it creates immersion. My goal is no longer just to share a story but to offer a pathway for others to live it, even if only for a brief, stolen moment. In doing so, photography and writing have finally become partners, unified by a deeper purpose that technical perfection alone could never fulfill.

It took years and thousands of photographs to learn what my instincts tried to tell me at that lighthouse on Brier Island, when all I had was a cell phone and a vague longing. Technical skill matters, but it was never the point. The real journey, the one beneath the surface, was always about learning how to see, how to feel, how to invite others inside my world.

My photography today is simpler, softer, more truthful. My writing follows suit. Each now serves the same quiet purpose: to translate my experiences into something meaningful enough that someone else can hold it too.

Thank you for reading. If you would like to explore more in-depth content, I invite you to check out my book, "Wander Light: Notes on Carrying Less and Seeing More." It helps support this web page and enables me to continue providing you with more content. Get your copy here.