I was walking through our local community garden with my camera one crisp, fall morning and noticed the beauty of dew drops pooling at the center of large, deep green nasturtium leaves. The drops of water magnified the silvery veins of the leaves and reflected the feathery outline of the cedar trees overhead. How many times before this morning had I missed this detail?
Whenever I have my camera in-hand I seem to notice my surroundings with more depth. I suppose in looking for interesting shots I have opened my eyes, so to speak, more fully to the world around me. It’s a bit like putting on new prescription glasses: before you thought you could see just fine, but now—now—you suddenly realize just how much you’ve missed. You spy things you’ve never seen before like the shiny metallic of tiny orchard mason bees or the delicate curves of a newborn’s tiny ear.
The world hasn’t changed, but rather the veil over my eyes has been lifted and I am fully open to the wonder of seeing things anew.