“Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.” – When Women Were Birds
In a world where we are almost always losing originality, I take breaks to go to nature where other living beings are happily being themselves. Birds are not trying to be redwoods and redwoods are not turning to hummingbirds.
It’s a wonderful feeling to take a walk in deeper woods, look around, and remind myself who I might be.
I am myself, not redwoods, or just a profile picture, or the man who doesn’t feel anything, or the woman who dreams in a hushed tone.
On such visits to nature, I secretly even envy some people who build a tent by a small stream and take ten days break from city life. “We are here for ten more days,” they say and then silently wait on a rock to catch a fish. A fresh catch for lunch! I nod my head and pass them sadly. For me, every hike, every trip seems like a short one. It’s like a flash memory that I relive a thousand times after returning home.
I capture nature in photographs, and when robots and city life bore me to death, I look at all photographs from my travel.
Sometimes in remote places, I chase a swaying flower or a bird in slow motion, pointing my camera, almost whispering, “Wait!! Wait!! Wait!!” I don’t ask that bird or the flower to wait for me. I actually beg that moment to wait.
It happens. A lot. Each time I hike in less known places. Each time it feels like I belong to that moment.
I come across something unknown but remarkable in places where there are not lots of people around me and where other living beings are not threatened by our existence.
I don’t like photographing flowers at botanical gardens where they are cared. I don’t like clicking caged animals in a zoo.
But often in a national park, I see a Bushtit carelessly roaming around, often I am like a trespasser in a Steller’s Jay’s territory, often a small yellow wild flower looks radiant before the big blue ocean, and I whisper, “Wait!! Wait!!”
Moments don’t wait for me ever. Only photographs in old albums do.