Quiet

The thing you have been walking past is already there. It has always been there. You simply haven't been still enough to see it yet.
 
That is what this piece is about. Not the flower itself, but the moment it became visible. A small succulent at my mother's back step, growing so close to the ground and so quietly that I had walked past it for years without ever really registering it. I was at her house on a casual afternoon, with a borrowed macro lens I was using for the first time, curious what it might reveal.
 
When I looked at this plant through the lens, I realised it was flowering. A small pink bloom, perfectly formed, that I had no idea existed. I lay flat on the ground to meet it at its level. Through the lens, it felt enormous, like I was standing inside its world rather than looking down at it from mine.
 
The late afternoon light was soft and indirect, filtering through the surrounding leaves without casting sharp shadows. I stayed there for a while.
 
What had always been there had become something I could finally actually see. That is what the walk gave me. Not only photographs, but the ability to find this. Quiet is what it looks like when something invisible becomes the only thing in the frame, because you finally stopped long enough to let it in.