Decomposition
Spring is the season of birth, and the soil is where it begins. I took this picture of leaf litter on a forest path, drawn to the intricate pattern of leaves slowly decomposing into the earth—a composition of decomposition. Tiny sprouts, in the midst of their growth spurts, had pushed through the canvas-like cover of leaf debris. Lowering myself to the ground, I observed this cycle of life from an insect’s point of view. It was mesmerizing.
The soil beneath our feet is a galaxy of its own. A single teaspoon holds more microbes than there are people on Earth. I think about that each spring when my hands return to their seasonal work—burying tree roots in damp, crumbly depths, tending to seedlings that miraculously emerge. A few years ago, I bought a refrigerator magnet as a souvenir from Oregon. It still resonates with me, perfectly capturing how I feel this time of year: a simple drawing of a mushroom with the caption "Nature is magic."
It’s easy to take this existence for granted, especially when lost in routine and trivial thoughts. Photography is my escape. It allows me to see with fresh eyes, to reconnect with life—the great mystery of it all. When you take the time to sit and ponder the simplest questions, like "What really is a rock?" while gazing at one with curiosity, you can’t help but feel humbled by what can’t be explained. For a moment, the ego takes a back seat, and it’s a relief. Accepting the unknown—and even finding comfort in it—feels a bit like a leaf returning to the fertile soil.
