For the last few weeks, I've caught myself doing something I don't normally do.
I'll open a map and start looking around.
Not because I have somewhere I need to go.
Just because part of me wants to.
I find myself looking at mountain roads in West Virginia, waterfalls in North Carolina, little historic towns, state parks, and places I've never visited before. Before long, I'm imagining what it would be like to get up before sunrise, grab my camera, and spend the day exploring wherever the road happens to take me.
Then, almost as quickly as those thoughts appear, another thought follows.
“You can't do that right now.”
There's work to do.
There are projects waiting.
There are deadlines that don't move simply because I'm feeling tired.
And then there's my mom.
She's recovering from a stroke, and I've been grateful to watch her improve little by little. I want to be nearby. I don't want to miss seeing another step forward or another good day. Being there for her matters to me.
So I close the map, go back to my desk, and keep working.
The funny thing is, I don't think I'm really looking for a vacation.
I think I'm looking for a little breathing room.
When you work from home, it's surprisingly difficult to get away. Even if you decide today is your day off, the computer is still sitting there. You know what's waiting for you. You know what still needs to be finished. It's easy to tell yourself you'll only check one thing, answer one email, or finish one small project.
An hour later, your day off has quietly disappeared.
I've learned that I'm not very good at resting when I'm surrounded by work.
Maybe that's why my thoughts keep drifting back to photography.
Photography has never been about making a living for me. It's something I enjoy because it exercises a completely different part of my mind. My regular work requires planning, concentration, and making decisions all day long. Photography asks something different.
It asks me to slow down.
To notice.
To be curious.
When I have a camera in my hand, I'm not thinking about tomorrow's schedule. I'm paying attention to the way morning light falls across an old building, the reflection in a quiet stream, or the texture of weathered wood on a forgotten barn.
For a little while, my mind thinks differently.
Some of my favorite trips have taken me to waterfalls in West Virginia, North Carolina, and a few other places. Looking back, I certainly remember some of the photographs, but that's not what I remember most.
I remember sitting beside the water.
Sometimes I'd photograph for a while and then simply stop.
I'd put the camera down, find a comfortable rock, and just listen.
The steady sound of the water seemed to drown out everything else that had been competing for my attention. Other times, I'd pull out a book and read a few chapters before ever thinking about taking another picture.
There was no schedule.
No pressure.
No feeling that every minute had to accomplish something.
Looking back, I don't think I was escaping life.
I think I was remembering what quiet sounded like.
Maybe that's what I've been missing.
We spend so much of our lives measuring our days by what we finished. We check things off our lists, answer messages, solve problems, and move on to the next responsibility. Somewhere along the way, it becomes easy to believe that if we're not accomplishing something, we're wasting time.
I'm beginning to wonder if that's really true.
Perhaps sitting beside a waterfall for an hour isn't wasting time.
Perhaps walking through an old town with no destination isn't a waste of time.
Perhaps watching the sunrise without immediately reaching for the camera isn't a waste of time.
Maybe those moments are quietly restoring something we've allowed to become exhausted.
Then my mind starts wandering again.
If I did get away for a few days, what kind of photography would I want to do?
Would I spend my mornings in the mountains photographing waterfalls and winding streams?
Would I wander through small towns looking for old churches, weathered barns, forgotten storefronts, and buildings that have witnessed generations come and go?
Maybe I'd visit places filled with history, where every street seems to have a story waiting to be discovered.
Or perhaps I'd find a wildlife refuge and spend an afternoon patiently waiting, knowing full well the animals probably won't cooperate with my plans.
The truth is, I don't think I'd have to choose.
Some of my favorite photographs have happened because I took a road I hadn't planned to drive on or stopped because something simply caught my eye.
Photography has always rewarded curiosity.
Then another question enters the conversation.
Do I go by myself?
Traveling alone has its advantages. If I want to spend forty-five minutes photographing one scene because the light keeps changing, nobody is waiting on me. I can turn down an unfamiliar road without wondering if someone else is getting impatient.
But I also think about taking my wife.
The trip would become something different. We'd explore together, find little restaurants, laugh when we get lost, and make memories that have nothing to do with photography. Years from now, I might forget which lens I used, but I doubt I'd forget the conversations we had along the way.
Then there's the idea of joining a photography field tour.
Not a workshop where someone teaches editing techniques.
A trip where someone else has already done the research, found the best locations, figured out sunrise times, and knows where to meet. That would let me spend less time worrying about logistics and more time simply enjoying the experience.
I honestly don't know which choice I'd make.
Maybe there isn't a wrong one.
The more I've thought about all of this, the more I've realized that my biggest question isn't where I should go.
It's whether I can give myself permission to go.
Permission to step away from work for a few days.
Permission to trust that everything doesn't depend on me every hour of every day.
Permission to believe that taking care of myself doesn't mean I'm caring less about the people who depend on me.
That's probably the hardest part.
I'm not trying to run away from my responsibilities.
I'm trying to make sure I still have enough energy to carry them well.
Maybe that's what photography has always given me.
Not just photographs.
Perspective.
It reminds me that slowing down isn't the same as falling behind.
That sitting quietly isn't the same as doing nothing.
That creativity often returns after we've stopped trying so hard to force it.
I don't know where my next trip will take me.
Maybe it'll be back to a familiar waterfall.
Maybe it'll be a historic town I've never explored.
Maybe it'll be a quiet country road with no destination at all.
What I do know is this.
If I decide to go, I hope I remember that the goal isn't to fill a memory card.
The goal is to come home with a clearer mind, a rested heart, and a renewed appreciation for the life that awaits me upon my return.
And perhaps that's what I've been searching for all along.
