Freed From Gravity

The Art of Letting Go

“Wrapped in the deep fragrance of the forest, I listen to the flapping of the birds' wings, to the stirring of the ferns. I'm freed from gravity and float up—just a little—from the ground and drift in the air. Of course I can't stay there forever. It's just a momentary sensation—open my eyes and it's gone. Still, it's an overwhelming experience. Being able to float in the air.”

― Haruki Murakami

I had felt heavy.

Worry, sadness, anxiety—weights that were pressing down in ways I hadn’t fully registered until I found myself, one morning, no longer quite touching the ground.

Normally, I photograph alone. It’s how I process, how I think, how I see. And, for almost all of my photographic life, precision in process and craft has been important to me. Precise focus, exacting framing, tripod-mounted cameras, carefully calculated exposure – all designed to render maximum detail and tonal range in most all the photographs I have produced.

But on these particular days, I was with others—friends and fellow photographers whose presence was light and generous. They nudged me gently out of my habits, and into something unexpected. They encouraged me to loosen my grip on precision, on sharpness, on control. I discovered some new ways of seeing that were unfamiliar to me, ways that, for a few days, helped me break free from the weight of what is and get a glimpse of what could be — and be freed from gravity.

Setting a slower shutter speed, I started moving the camera, deliberately. Slowly. Then faster. I let the trees blur. I let the lake smear. I let the forest swirl into abstraction. I also fought the urge to focus the lens precisely, letting the subject render more softly. The photographs that came out of these days aren’t what I normally make. But they are exactly what I needed to make.

With every gesture, every pan and pull of the shutter, it felt like I was lifting off just a little. I wasn’t aiming to document what was in front of me so much as to capture how I felt in that moment: untethered, uncertain—but also strangely hopeful. For a few fleeting seconds, the weight fell away. I was free.

What surprised me most wasn’t just how different the images looked, but how different I felt while making them—and in the hours and days that followed. The act of letting go, even in this small, controlled way, unlocked something larger.

Moving the camera felt like a metaphor made real. I stopped trying to hold everything still, to control every line, every detail. And in doing so, I found a kind of quiet exhilaration. The world didn’t fall apart when I loosened my grip. It opened up.

That permission I gave myself—to blur, to miss, to experiment—cascaded into more than just image-making. I started noticing a little more levity in how I moved through the rest of my day. The worries didn’t vanish, but they lost their edge. That internal tightness, the kind that builds up silently, began to loosen.

These images aren’t just records of a forest, or a lake, or a path covered in leaves. They’re reminders. Evidence that sometimes, the way back to ourselves isn’t through clarity or control—but through motion, through gesture, through a blur that somehow tells the truth more honestly than any sharp line ever could.

“Of course I can't stay there forever. It's just a momentary sensation—open my eyes and it's gone. Still, it's an overwhelming experience. Being able to float in the air.”

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During this difficult time, we all need to do what we can to keep our spirits up. I post my photographs and thoughts here to show that there is still beauty in the world and to promote the idea that there is grace, positivity and inclusivity in the everyday.

Throughout history, goodness most always wins, and the arts can lead the way in reflecting the good all around us. There is still light in the world.

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