A few weeks ago, I woke up in a tiny little cabin in the Big Sur Redwoods.
The chilly air nipped at my nose and I rose quietly, hoping not to disturb my friend Erin, still sleeping a deep sleep (driving alongside cliffs on a two lane road in California is exhausting.)
I slipped on my Birkenstocks, grabbed a cup of coffee and my Hasselblad (his name is Otis) and then walked down to the rocky creek set among the redwoods.
My fleece jacket was snuggled around my shoulders as I sat on a particularly large rock, hearing nothing but the gentle whisper of the light breaking through the trees.
I'm always searching for those glimpses of light. It's what I live for as a photographer.
It's a very particular kind of light that calls my name.
The light that breaks into very dark places.
Through trees it bounces. It dapples. It won't give up.
I've walked through some fiery, dark places in the last few months. Confronting the blacker pieces of my past has led me through a whole new adventure in pain. My soul has been wrung out. But the light never, never gave up. It never went out.
I sat by the river that morning and gave thanks.