The Waiting

Tom Petty sang that “The waiting is the hardest part.” But in my world, it’s not.

I’m up early, just as the first light gathers on a grove of coastal live oaks I came across last night. Some morning fog I wasn’t expecting is drifting in and out…and here come the sun’s first dappled rays, too, just cresting a nearby hill and filtering through the overstory. I’m watching and waiting, camera fixed to tripod, sipping some tea. And this song comes to me.

But meanwhile, I’m also seeing some grasses off to my left…and a cascade of buckwheat in fall’s rust-red colors…and the shimmer of backlit grey pines…and the blues and greens in the toothy, fallen oak leaves at my feet…plus a glimpse of the fog-shrouded meadow beyond the grove…

Many of what I think of as my “best” images were found while I was looking for something else. Or when, like now, I’m “sitting” on the light—hoping that, yes, a morning ray might paint a central oak’s trunk just so. And, later, soften to a warm, soft, blanketing glow.

So, working on one image while seeing the second, then the third, and wondering whether I should change over and work on those…? But where is the light going? Is there time to do these other shots, too? Can I come back for one or more of them tonight or same time tomorrow? Or will it all pass me by? There’s always more to find.

Who knows, maybe everything that counts comes to us while we’re waiting for something else. We slow down…and only then do we see it. Maybe it’s that stillness…which then invites the world to come forth. The narrative in one’s head goes quiet, lists dissolve, things lose their labels, and time slows like dust motes in the air.

And here’s the thing about landscape photography: you and the camera are required to be there. In direct contact with trees, buckwheat, grasses, and light. And by doing that, you open yourself up to the grand world of chance—and discover things beyond what you thought you knew. Maybe even some miracles.

I’m always striving for a perfection that never quite comes. So, are these things—right here, right now—good enough? Maybe one’s failings and one’s wounds become one’s strengths, one’s vision. Dunno. But here I am, and this may be as close as I’ll ever get to holding light waves—and life—in my hand. Within this clearing, inside meets outside, and the “plan” makes its own plans. It starts with the standing still. Then, as the self slowly joins the landscape, I’ll begin to see what I see, hear what I hear, feel what I feel. My photos will find me.

So, I’m thinking it’s the practice itself that counts.

It’s the waiting.

By Scott Atkinson

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