Crossing The Bridge

finding my way back to art, attention, and small acts of hope

Noticing the light from the bridge

Hi everyone,

I’ve been quieter here lately. If I’m honest, it’s because I haven’t felt I had anything meaningful to share. The past few weeks in the Twin Cities have been intense — the kind of intensity that keeps your adrenaline high, your energy buzzing, your nervous system on constant alert. And then, almost inevitably, I crashed. I fell into a hole.

I’m still finding my way back to balance. Beyond the work that had to be done — teaching, preparing lessons, writing workshops — I haven’t been creating much. I haven’t shown up the way I wanted to. Instead, I withdrew, because that’s what I needed.

I love writing here on Substack. It feels like my own creative corner — a space where I can share my thoughts and work freely, and where others are free to come and go. There’s something very beautiful about that openness.

And yet, I’ve been wrestling with the platform lately. This isn’t a new pattern for me. I begin with enthusiasm, build momentum, move through the inevitable challenges — and then life intervenes. I find myself back in that hole again, trying to climb out by working through doubts or simply stepping away for a while.

My hope for this space is genuine: to offer something of value, to share beauty, to share my process, and, in some small way, to inspire.

So I keep going.

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Dog Park in late February

This week, for the first time in a long while, I picked up my camera again.

I went for a walk on a day that felt almost like spring — the snow softening into slush, the sun carrying a hint of warmth I hadn’t felt in months. At the edge of February and into March, winter and spring wrestle over who gets to stay. Winter usually wins. But the days are stretching longer now, and the air is shifting slowly, quietly.

I live in a small neighborhood located on a hill just south of downtown, separated from the rest of the city by the Mississippi River. Nearly every day, I drive across the bridge that connects us. It’s a familiar route, but I never tire of the view. It’s open and expansive, changing constantly with the weather.

This time, I chose to walk.

I lingered. I let myself notice what I usually rush past.

At one point, I turned my camera downward, framing the world from above — a bird’s-eye perspective that allowed me to observe without being observed. It felt symbolic: an attempt to shift my perspective, to see life from another angle, to release some of the heaviness and reset my energy.

It worked — at least in part.

Ice floating down the river I

Ice floating down the river II

There are very few moments in my life when I question whether art matters.

But in January, in the midst of everything unfolding, I came close.

I found myself wondering: Why care about art or creativity at all? Aren’t there more immediate needs, more urgent concerns?

And yet, standing on that bridge with my camera in hand, watching winter reluctantly loosen its grip, I was reminded that art is not separate from life.

It is one way we make sense of it.
One way we endure it.

The path from above

Art helps us process what might otherwise feel too heavy to carry.

It asks us to pay attention.
To slow down and notice the changing light falling onto the trees and the melting snow.
To see the quiet persistence of the river, flowing regardless of the season.

This kind of noticing can bring calm to a chaotic mind.

This kind of paying attention can turn overwhelm into something we can hold.

We don’t create because life is easy.
We create because it isn’t.

Art gives form to our realities. It allows us to say:

I was here.
I saw this.
I felt this.

Art is about remaining aware of small pockets of quiet beauty — beauty that persists no matter how difficult the circumstances.

Anything we make, even a simple photograph, can be a quiet act of hope.

Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read my letter!

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Items of Note:

Publication

I’m excited to share that several of my recent Substack essays have either been published or are scheduled to be published in Yorkshire Bylines, an independent non‑profit online newspaper in the UK. The way this came about is a bit amusing: after watching a short Instagram reel from someone requesting first‑hand accounts from people living in Minnesota under ICE occupation, I impulsively copied their email address and sent them a couple of links — not expecting to hear anything back. To my surprise, the editor wrote to me shortly afterward. Two of the essays were published last week, and the next two will appear next week. If you’re curious, you can check them out by clicking here and here.

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Upcoming Online Workshops:

1. Santa Fe Workshops April 13 - 30 2026

   Words and Images: The Art of Creative Fusion

2. LA Center of Photography April 14 - May 1, 2026

   Layers of Imagination: The Art of Multiple Exposure

   Click on each title to read more about the workshops and to register!