Blackwell // 2025

Recently I had the pleasure of visiting my parent’s home. Ever since I can remember, their place has been a lush, green sanctuary. Quiet—save for the birds, cicadas, and the occasional train rumbling past. No matter how many times I visit, I never feel like I capture enough photos.

One evening, lightning bugs began their dance just as the sun was setting. I tried my best to capture them, but photographs never quite do the moment justice.

I've always admired the clouds here, but this time they were particularly... monumental. The kind that make you stop mid-step and crane your neck back like a kid.

I made sure to walk the property and revisit all the nooks and crannies I'd discovered growing up. It's remarkable how different everything feels as you grow—the trees seem smaller, the distances shorter, but somehow the memories feel bigger.

I found myself thinking about all the animals that have come and gone through our property over the years. Beyond our rotating cast of pets, this land has always been a haven for creatures great and small: cats stalking through tall grass, dogs chasing their tails in circles, chickens pecking at invisible treasures, ducks waddling with important purpose, snakes sunning themselves on warm rocks, spiders spinning architectural marvels between fence posts, turtles making their prehistoric pilgrimages across the yard, birds of every feather, and hummingbirds—those tiny, furious miracles—hovering at the feeders my mother faithfully fills.

I visited the familiar landmarks scattered around our property too. The old shed, the creek bend, that one perfect climbing tree. They all look exactly the same, yet entirely different—like running into someone you knew in high school. You recognize them instantly, but time has added layers you're still trying to read.
Standing there, camera in hand, I realized I'll probably always feel like I haven't taken enough photos of this place. But maybe that's the point. Some things are meant to be felt more than captured—like lightning bugs at dusk, or the way home looks when you're finally old enough to see it clearly.