Still Water

Where falling water is loud and demands attention, the waves of the ocean and the stillness of lakes speak more quietly.

I was drawn to that quieter movement after being introduced to Taoism in college. Taoism is often called the watercourse way—water finds the easiest path, yielding rather than striving, giving way to what is hard. A drop in a rushing stream may seem separate for a moment, but once it returns to the flow, it cannot be distinguished. It simply becomes part of the whole again, always moving along the path of least resistance.

I began to live my life in a similar way, returning to a calm place within myself whenever I felt out of place or disconnected. I would sit near streams and watch the water, trying to understand the wisdom in its movement—the way it could rush and then suddenly become still. I noticed how light played across its surface: reflecting the sky when calm, turning white as it mixed with air when falling.

One winter, we lived beside a lake, and I began to see water in all its expressions. It offered life and shelter to ducks, geese, eagles, and osprey. The lake was never the same twice—changing daily, sometimes moment by moment. The rising and setting sun would shift its color and mood: at times bright and blinding, at others muted, blue, and cold beneath the clouds.

I began to record these changes with my camera, discovering more moods than could ever truly be captured.

This gallery is a reflection of those moments—the many moods of still water.

Light begins to soften…

Light returns

The day begins to quiet again.

And slowly, the light lets go.

Some of these photographs carry stories.
You can read them on the Stories page.