Still Looking

The tree I came across in the public park.

I used to think the best photos came from faraway places.
Morning fog in the Alps. Golden hour in Morocco. Some crumbling archway with a story I’d never know.

But the longer I’ve kept a camera nearby, the more I’ve realized that the most meaningful photographs often come from ordinary days.

Like a neighbor’s porch light coming on just as the sun disappears.
Or the steam rising from a manhole after rain.
Or a tired teenager walking home from school, head down, backpack sagging behind him.

These aren’t things I plan to photograph. They just happen. And I’ve learned that if I’m paying attention — really paying attention — they’re enough.

Travel taught me that. But home is where I’ve had to practice it.

There’s a rhythm to everyday life, and it’s easy to let it wash over you. Errands. Screens. The same streets, the same faces. But every once in a while, something cuts through the noise. A moment that doesn’t ask to be captured, but stays with you anyway.

That’s when I take the photo.

Not because it’s a “good shot,” but because it reminds me to stay open.
Because sometimes the best kind of seeing isn’t about novelty — it’s about presence.

One of my favorite photos this year was taken five minutes from my front door.
No long flight. No sweeping view. Just a tree in full bloom at the edge of a city park.

I was out walking. The sky was soft with clouds. The tree stopped me — not because it was rare, but because it was right. Perfect in its moment. Quietly alive.

I didn’t overthink the shot. Just stood there, camera in hand, and let it be what it was.

And honestly? I’ve thought about that photo more than many I’ve taken halfway around the world.