Monday morning was stunningly beautiful, in a muted sort of way. Sunrise was not what you’d call radiant or spectacular, but it was quite lovely, with pastel colors in the sky and a calm, soft light falling across the landscape. The air was temperate, no frost on the ground, no ice on the water. You might even call it an average morning, as there was little to differentiate it from most others.

The thing that was different was my being there at sunup, camera in hand, in jeans and an old fleece jacket. Forget the slacks, forget the cup of coffee steaming on my desk, forget the office and the phone that starts ringing before I even arrive. I had certainly forgotten about all of that. In fact, the only thing I was thinking of was how much I wish I could start every morning like that one – outdoors as the sun rises, camera in hand.

It seems that amid all the deadlines and rushing around, somehow I managed to actually forget how much I love the simple pleasure of working with the camera. In the past I’ve sometimes used the excuse that working through the lens insulates me from the world, lets me step back. And as much as that may sometimes be true, I think the opposite must be true as well – working through the lens lets the world in, often in very intimate ways, as other people and other places open up to you.

I didn’t make any images that I would call stunning, although I managed to capture one or two that I was pleased with. I didn’t find the river otters I’d gone looking for, although I did fine my friend the heron in the reeds. I didn’t get the photo of the cardinal that I was trying for, although I did watch a hawk wheel overhead, heard it actually let out one of those cries you hear in old westerns.

Mornings like that are better than any therapy. They might even be better than anything else at all.

Goodness knows, I wish I had more of them.