The Forest Floor
We walk through forests looking ahead or upward, chasing vistas and canopy light. But beneath every step lies an entire world—textures layered upon textures, colors bleeding into earth, patterns both random and inevitable. Born from a failed foliage shoot in the Adirondacks, this series redirected my gaze downward and never let go. Moss on bark, leaves mid-decay, fungus in improbable forms—the forest floor reveals what we miss in our hurry toward the horizon. Each frame is an invitation to step off the trail and discover the overlooked landscape we've been walking over all along.
Second Act: Brilliant green erupts from darkness—a fern claiming its moment in a shaft of light. Against the black, every frond glows with defiant vitality. This is renewal's quiet triumph.
A Solitary Moment in Time: Stillness captured in wood and decay. A single leaf rests on weathered timber, its delicate form a quiet reminder of seasons passing. The textured grain beneath speaks of years, while fresh moss clings to edges—life persisting in the margins we rarely notice.
Between Seasons: Light transforms a simple branch into poetry. Yellow leaves glow against darkness, each one marking the shift from green to gold. This fleeting moment asks us to pause, to witness the beauty in letting go.
The Arrangement: Nature's own composition. Leaves gather in quiet congregation, their colors muted but rich—evidence of time's patient hand. What seems random reveals intention when we look closely enough.
Dancing in the Light: Roots grip stone and earth with ancient strength, their moss-covered curves catching light like dancers frozen mid-movement. Darkness frames the scene, but here—where wood meets water—life performs its endless choreography.
Guided by Him: Divine light breaks through canopy, illuminating the path beneath our feet. What lies in shadow holds as much wonder as what's ahead. The forest floor glows with possibility, inviting us to slow down, look closer, trust the light.
Last Breath: Winter's first touch crystallizes a leaf mid-fall. Each frost crystal catches light, transforming decay into something precious. Beauty persists even as the season turns cold.
Life Contrasts: Birch bark peels in stark bands of rust and white, each layer revealing the dualities woven through existence. Light meets dark, smooth meets textured, new growth borders old decay. On the forest floor, we see life's fundamental truth: beauty emerges not despite contrast, but because of it.
Lifeline: Black roots spread like veins across the forest floor, surrounded by autumn's final offerings. These charred lifelines once fed towering trees. Even in apparent death, they map the network that sustains the forest above.
Living on the Edge: Moss climbs the curve of an ancient trunk, its vibrant green bleeding into shadow. The boundary between light and dark becomes a place of beauty, where life clings and thrives in the in-between.
Memory of Trees: The knothole stares back like an ancient eye, witness to decades of seasons. Golden leaves frame the opening, celebrating what this tree once was while acknowledging what it's become—a home for what comes next.
Not Yet: A single green leaf holds on among the fallen. Frost-kissed but still vibrant, it refuses the season's call to let go. There's courage in this small resistance.
A Luminous Surrender: Pinned to the river bottom by rushing water, a single leaf still holds the light of late day. Golden and illuminated despite the current above, it rests in a moment between descent and dissolution—neither fighting nor succumbing, simply present in the fate it has been given. There is a quiet grace in watching something beautiful surrender without losing its radiance.
Yielding to the Current: Leaves lie pinned beneath rushing water, held fast as the current sweeps over them in silken waves. The water moves with relentless grace, transforming their stillness into something luminous—a swirling choreography of light and motion. There is beauty in this surrender, in being held while the world rushes past. Sometimes yielding means staying exactly where you are while everything flows around you.
Where We Are Held: A single leaf rests upon a bed of moss, cradled by countless green stars that cushion its fall. In the cold rain, the forest floor becomes sanctuary—soft, patient, unyielding in its gentleness. There is comfort in this image, a reminder that even in our falling, something waits to catch us.
What Cannot Be Dimmed: Through dense fog, a cluster of golden leaves glows against the grey—refusing to fade, refusing to disappear into the mist that surrounds them. The forest may be obscured, the path uncertain, but this small brightness persists. There is hope in watching light hold its ground, a reminder that some things shine regardless of what tries to soften them.