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A new distance for miles. A landscape old as the mountains, stripped bare and blinking in the too-blue light. Joy has sharp edges and smells of sleeplessness, tastes like ash, cuts through an absence of well-being.

Lay back and close your eyes. Let the water wash your grief clean.

Sentinels stand watch in the moonlight with roots as deep as time. They whisper a language like a heartbeat, like breathing into the stillness.

I’m learning to love the dusty violet and blue of twilight, the golden-brown of the setting sun on bare rock, the open sky bright with stars, a crescent moon waxing toward wholeness. As the green returns, soft and vulnerable, exploring a wilderness exposed, I begin to breathe again.

This series is a work in progress captured at my family’s home in Southern Oregon. It loosely follows the destruction and rebuilding following the Archie Creek fire on September 8, 2020.