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The forest is preparing for winter in its quiet, deliberate way. The ferns that carpeted the ground all summer are thinning, revealing more of the rocky earth. Poison ivy has finally pulled back, giving me the chance to start cutting some of the dead trees I’ve been eyeing. And the leaves—well, they’ve begun their slow descent. I’ve set up a time-lapse camera to take a photo every two minutes, watching the canopy change day by day. It’s like the woods are breathing, releasing one breath at a time. We also brought home a canoe recently, and our dog has already claimed it as her favorite spot—proof that every family member loves these woods in their own way. One afternoon this week, we decided to fire up a campfire as we worked around the property. That simple spark turned into let’s make dinner over the open fire. The flames cracked and popped as the sun sank lower, the air just cool enough for a wool blanket. Cast-iron skillets balanced over the fire: garden vegetables sizzling in one, veggie burgers in the other. The smoke mixed with the smell of the spices, onions, and our jalapeños straight from the garden. Eating that meal outside, cooked entirely over open flame, felt like we’d rediscovered something simple and grounding that routine had buried. Music made the evening even richer. We put on our favorite Caamp album, on vinyl. Years ago, I gifted away my extensive record collection, but with a new turntable, I’ve been building one again. There’s a ritual in dropping the needle on a record, letting the warmth of the sound join the warmth of the fire. It slows you down in a way streaming music never does. That night around the fire reminded me of my work in photography and video production. Sometimes projects unfold with a clear storyboard, but more often they shift and plans bend, light changes, opportunities show up unannounced. Like cooking dinner on a fire, the best results often come from leaning into those changes. The unexpected isn’t a disruption; it’s often where the story really begins.
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