Stepping Into The Labyrinth

Every My Final Photo begins before taking the first step. It begins with the unspoken decision to seek again without any guarantee of results. That moment, that desire, that promise, subtle as breath, returns each day. I collect the required tools. Cameras, extra batteries, a complement of lenses from wide to narrow. These are rituals more than tasks. Part ceremony, part compass. They don’t direct me, but they align me. They say, “I am willing to go, even if I don’t know where.”

The act of preparation carries a quiet vulnerability. I’m not packing for a destination. I’m preparing for a question. The same question that drives every artist, every pilgrim, every seeker of the unnoticed: What will I see today that I haven’t seen before?

There’s always the chance that the path will be ordinary. That I’ll return with nothing but footprints. And that’s the risk I take every time. Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just that familiar whisper: What if there’s nothing out there today? And the deeper whisper that follows: Go anyway.

And yet, I carry something powerful. The weight of past walks. I remember moments when the photograph appeared like a gift, unplanned and perfect: a shaft of late afternoon light catching a child’s laughter, the curve of a shadow bending around a quiet doorway, a stranger’s posture that told a whole story. None of these were chased—they were found along the way, often after long stretches of nothing.

That history matters. It doesn’t make the unknown less unknown, but it makes it livable. Even on days when doubt rides quietly in the passenger seat, I know that somewhere out there—in the ordinary streets, the overlooked corners of parks and buildings, the shifting light between trees—there will be a moment that pulls me into alignment. A moment that says: now. And in that moment, the preparation will have meant something.

This is why I go. Not for the certainty of results but for the possibility of presence. The belief, built through repetition, that every path holds the potential for revelation—if I’m there to receive it.

So I load the bag. Adjust the strap. Step out the door. Not because I know what will happen, but because I’ve learned that something always does.