Natural Rhythms
Walking the Same Trails, Seeing Something New
I find myself continually refreshed and inspired by the natural world, especially along the creek trails near my home. I have walked these same paths for years, yet they are never truly the same. Each visit reveals subtle and dramatic shifts: seasonal rhythms, floodwaters in winter, drought in summer, the steady ebb and flow of the creek reshaping the land. Even familiar places are in constant conversation with time.
Human presence weaves through these landscapes as well. New homes appear nearby, paths subtly change, and deer trails thread through the woodlands, quietly guiding movement. Change is layered and inevitable, and over time I’ve learned to notice not just the obvious transformations, but the quieter ones too.
Along these trails, I witness the full cycle of life—birth, growth, decay, and renewal—in plants, insects, and animals. Gradually, I began to recognize these same rhythms not only in wild spaces, but in my own suburban yard, neighborhood parks, and the landscapes surrounding my neighbors’ homes. Once you start paying attention, these patterns show up everywhere.
Winter in Northern California is a season of contradiction. Early rains arrive after long months of dryness, bringing sudden greening to what was once brown and brittle. At the same time, cooler temperatures strip trees of their leaves. The land is bare above, but lush below. The creek swells and floods, carrying soil and plant material downstream, sometimes overtaking creatures that don’t survive the force of the water. Vultures arrive as quiet witnesses, tending to what remains.
Over the years, I have watched the creek erode more and more of the soil from around the roots of this sycamore tree.
Then spring follows with abundance. Trees leaf out. Flowers bloom. Butterflies emerge from months spent hidden in chrysalis, transforming rapidly and fully. Parts of the trail are like walking through a butterfly house, and I have to be careful not to step on wandering caterpillars crossing the trail. Not long after, the heat begins to build. The rains stop, sometimes earlier, sometimes later.
I found a large patch of poppies in this spot in 2024, but have not seen them there since. Maybe 2026 they’ll be back?
Summer arrives and the creek shrinks to a fraction of its winter self. Trails that were once soft and muddy harden like concrete. The dryness leaves the landscape vulnerable to fire. Native plants respond in remarkable ways. A few shed all visible signs of life at the peak of summer heat, conserving energy and waiting patiently for the cycle to turn again.
Eventually, temperatures begin to drop as leaves start to turn colors. Clouds gather. We wait for late fall and early winter rains, and the process begins anew.
This ever-repeating cycle—activation and rest, comfort and heartbreak, loss and renewal—is where I find the foundation for my work.
I found this dying mantis on a walk in the fall and brought her home for a final photo shoot to remember her always.
In the studio, I bring together collected details from nature with alternative photographic processes. I layer images, paint, texture, and found materials, allowing the work to build slowly. These physical layers reflect layers of meaning, memory, and spirit. Hidden elements often reveal themselves only with time, much like the landscapes that inspire them.
My practice is rooted in a desire to bring hope and healing. I believe that paying attention to beauty, to fragility, to the small and often overlooked, is a restorative act. Creating art is my way of staying present with the world as it is, while still trusting in renewal.
Even when the seasons feel harsh or uncertain, the landscape keeps reminding me: change is constant, resilience is quiet, and life, somehow, continues to find its way back.
A Closing Reflection
Spending time with the landscape has taught me that hope doesn’t arrive all at once. It shows up in small ways, in greening ground after rain, in seeds waiting through heat, in the patience required to witness a cycle all the way through. The land doesn’t rush its healing, and neither do we need to.
When I return to the studio, I carry these lessons with me. Layer by layer, I try to honor what has been lost, what is resting, and what is beginning again. Making art becomes a way of paying attention, of staying present with uncertainty while still choosing to believe in renewal.
My hope is that these works offer a place to pause, a quiet reminder that even in seasons of upheaval, life is still unfolding, and healing is often already underway, whether we notice it or not.
