What could be more mundane, more ordinary than acres of woods and meadow in flat northwestern Indiana? And yet, at our country property there, when I head into the woods, I find magic.
First, however, I have to ignore my inner devil yapping, “What could you possibly see today that you didn’t see last week?” I have to push myself to sling the camera strap around my neck, tie my hiking boots, and explore.
I’ve done it often enough now to know that the land does change within a week, or even a day, and that there’ll be something magical to discover that I didn’t spot before.
One late October day I hiked along, lost in my thoughts, when something in midair caught my eye: A leaf was dancing in the breeze, reflecting the sunlight that seeped through the thinning foliage. However, it was not sailing down, as leaves do at this time of year. I had to approach the leaf carefully until it almost touched my nose to see that it hung on a gossamer thread.
I peered through my camera’s viewfinder, trying to capture this wonder dancing in the soft breeze. However, the shutter wouldn’t click as the leaf twirled, evading the camera’s focus. I found myself two-stepping with the leaf until, finally, I caught its jerky dance and its image.
This is why I’ve come to love photography, and why I love exploring the same wild property in northwestern Indiana again and again: It allows me to discover and capture this kind of wonder—a leaf dancing in midair. Any moment now, a stronger whiff of wind could send it sailing to the ground to join all the other crunchy leaves, decomposing into moist humus for springs to come.
But for now and forever in my frame, it will twirl in the air.
Another time, in late winter, when the snow had receded, I rounded a bend in the woods that I’d rounded just a few days earlier, when I noticed something gleaming white at the foot of a tree. I stepped closer. What was beckoning white when the snow was gone? Bleached bones rose from last year’s leaves: It was the rib cage of a deer long dead.
Why had I not seen this before? Was it hidden under a pile of leaves that a recent wind blew off? Or could it not compete with the snow? I crouched down, lay prone (I always wear the rattiest, most comfortable old field jacket and jeans when I’m exploring), and craned my neck to get the right angle to capture the arch of these bones, their whiteness stark against the drab colors of the mid-March woods, this jarring yet beautiful testament to the life of a deer.
Photography also had me stop the car along a busy stretch of country road to capture the thunder clouds looming above a lonesome barn.
In the flatlands of the Midwest, the sky is often the landscape.
Meanwhile, my son explored the culvert under the road and yelled, “Mom, I saw a turtle by the ditch!”
That’s how you find magic—by getting out of the car.
A few seconds later, the turtle would have moved on and the sky would have darkened too much. The barn, in fact, was torn down a few months after I took that picture (see above). I kept looking for the barn, thinking I’d already passed it until, one day, I slowed down enough to discern the rubble left of its footprint.
I’ve always been one to run around—travel has been my luxury and a high-powered consulting career was my vice. It is no surprise, perhaps, that we bought that country property a month after I ditched my corporate life.
Since then, I have learned that you don’t have to wander far and wide to live fully. Rather, you can sit still, by the same pond you’ve sat at for the past five years, and all of a sudden, you’ll hear a rustle behind your back. You’ll turn around and see nothing stir in the woods. But the rustle will continue until you’ll look long enough to see that it’s a chip munk, shuttling in and out of his burrow under a root ball, munching on whatever he can find. You’ll stealthily reach for your camera (you’ve learned to always have your camera with you), screw in the longer lens, and zoom in on him nibbling on moss.
You’ll smile to yourself—here you are, not exactly an animal person, yet shooting frame after frame of a chipmunk while your heart widens and you can’t believe this joy of observing this little guy going about his business.
Wildlife photography might just be the next thing—requiring not only exploring the same property again and again, but sitting still in one spot, waiting to capture the magic when it appears.
An earlier version of this essay was published in Bella Grace, Winter 2015.
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Your leaf in the wind is reminding me of a pivotal scene about a falling leaf in a Carlos Castenada book, oddly titled "The Second Ring of Power." If you have read it, no need to explain it further. If not, it is hard to summarize this profound scene any effective way.
I'll just say that you found that moment and it was a pleasure to be next to you as it unfolded.
Thank you, Marco. Now I'm curious about the book you mentioned!