The house I own 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.

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.

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.

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.

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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