I noticed, when I returned from my most recent pilgrimage to my particular sacred landscape, how the light and the trees and the river stayed fresh behind my closed eyelids for days. They are still there — they are always there — but the tangible memory of a loved one does fade over time without their presence, and I can feel this already happening, again.

I tend to want to photograph my place, and I do, and I usually find one or two images that hold the feel of it, while the other fifty-five are flat and lifeless.

It’s subtle, my place — many-layered forest, lots of greens-browns-greys — though when the colors aren’t cool and similar, they’re a clashing contrast that’s difficult on the eye in a photograph. Think brilliant lime green against a muted, heathered teal.

So this year, I set myself the task of photographing primarily light and contrast and shadow, by trying to think first in black and white. It became a sort of miniature project. Its output is simple and defined: twelve photos, tied together by the task and by this theme of knowing my heart to be at least partially outside my self.

I’m new at black and white, but generally I’m pleased with the way this series “captures” (oof, that metaphor) the feel of this place that is a great love of my life. I hear my rainbow birds singing when I look at these pictures. I smell the breeze ruffling down the river.

Twelve is too many photos for one post. There’s just not enough negative space when you’re scrolling down an infinite “page” on a screen. So I’ll start with the first one here, and release each as a separate (short!) post in the days to come.

They’re also all up on Twitter and Instagram already, if those are your jam. Again, not a lot of negative space in either of those forums. It’s hard to really look at one photo.

Here’s Heartwood Echo: