She moved through the rows of vegetables with a rhythm that felt timeless, soft, steady, and sure. She never forced the earth to give; she simply created the space for it. The air smelled of tomato vines and sunshine, and I remember how the light wrapped around her shoulders like morning itself. It changed everything it touched.

As a child, I didn’t realize I had begun to see. Only now, looking back, do I understand how significant that moment was, the beginning of seeing, of wonder, of learning how light finds its way into the smallest corners of life.

From that day on, the light became a quiet companion. It was in the shimmer of golden colors in fall, in moments of stillness, in the calm breath between one heartbeat and the next. It showed up in ordinary places, teaching me that light isn’t something we chase, it’s something we allow ourselves to see.

And then, one day, it was gone.

When I lost my husband, Mark, the world dimmed. Grief has a way of blurring even the brightest things. The light that had always been with me suddenly felt veiled and lost to me. For many years, I believed the light had forsaken me.

But the truth about light is that it never leaves.
It waits patiently and quietly for us to open our hearts and let it in.

Through journaling, I found it once more. At first, just a flicker between words, then a steady glow. The light returned, gentle, forgiving, and familiar. Writing became my way back to seeing, and photography became my way to gather the light close and dwell in its stillness, to be fully at home in the quiet it offered, where shadow and glow belonged to one another. In that space, I learned that the light was never something to hold, only something to live within.

That rediscovery became The Light Between Studio.

This studio is more than a collection of photographs and words, it’s a space to pause and remember what has always remained, waiting gently to be seen again. A place to wander, to reflect, and to remember that grace endures even when life changes its shape.

I hope you’ll join me in this practice of seeing.
Write with me. Wander with me.
Find your own light, waiting quietly between what was and what will be.

Photography, words & wanderings
Light is ever-present; it simply waits to be seen.