My house has a seasonal bog behind it that I share with seven neighbors. When Covid sent us into isolation in 2020, I went back there every day with my camera. The natural world has always been a sanctuary for me, and the bog became my daily refuge from the turmoil of the outside world.

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The bog is astonishingly silent, cut off from everything outside as if behind a locked doorway. And in this otherworld, a tree would look at me through eyes I had not noticed the day before, or a stone would take shape as a face.

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I was surprised by the degree to which each visit was different from the last. A bone would appear that I’d never seen before, or a change in the light would reveal an entirely new way to see a reflection or a detail on the ground. The bog, no bigger than a quarter acre, was magically abundant as I wandered around in my rubber boots, trying not to fall into the water with my Nikon. Every visit offered something unexpected.

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But the bog also feels primeval, even slightly menacing at times; and I felt my own aging self reflected in its age, reminding me of the inevitable end of my own life, even as I sought refuge. As more months passed, I began to photograph the impermanence around me as well as its beauty and magic.

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Eventually, the isolation of Covid ended, but my photography continues, mainly in Woodstock, but wherever I find myself traveling. From the bog, I have learned to see abundance and magic everywhere I go. I show my photos in the hope that others will feel called to protect our all too precious, fragile, and holy planet and all the mortal forms that live upon it

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(Click  photo to expand size.)

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