I am sitting on the back porch of a beloved mountain home. Thunder is humming in the distance as I watch dark blue clouds tumble across the mountains that frame my view. Yesterday I traveled a thousand miles; driving with my three boys, from beach to desert, to high plains, to foothills. We crossed dry swatches of land, forgotten reservations, Navajo Nations. We came into these San Juan mountains from the back door. I feel so lucky. So at peace.
Though my great grandfather was an accomplished photographer in his day, it does nothing to feed my overly critical brain. Perhaps that’s why I love freelensing so much: that I came into it from the backdoor.
The right and the wrong just don’t exist here.
That, here in the arc of its blurred images I find the back door to my soul: a place where I perch my heart in my dreams. As summer draws in its last heated gasps of summer, I know I remember things better this way, the blurred images of my memory, the dance between the dark and the day, and the hush of the sky before the storm.