Changing Course~
There are moments when life taps on the shoulder and says, “It’s time.” Today feels like one of those moments. For almost six months now, I’ve shown up daily, posting images and thoughts as a practice of presence and discipline. But something has shifted. As Saturn makes its return, it feels like a strong inner tide has started to turn, asking for a different rhythm.
Instead of structuring my creative output around daily sharing, I’m feeling a deep pull toward instinct and intuition. There’s a sense that not every day needs to be visible. Some days are meant for silence, for journaling that remains tucked away, private and still forming. I want to give space for that — to be in flow with what asks to emerge, not just what I’ve planned.
The phrase keeps echoing: change is the only constant. We are all navigating a time of collective uncertainty, and to stay fluid out there, I need to stay fluid in here. This post marks a pause in the daily rhythm and the beginning of something less defined, more responsive.
Thank you for being here with me in this unfolding.
When the City Dances~
Late summer in Düsseldorf carries with it a certain stillness, as if time itself is slowing down before the inevitable shift of seasons. This evening, around 9 p.m., our small photography group wandered along the riverside, and the light had that golden, lingering quality only late summer can offer.
We didn’t expect music, but there it was—spilling out into the open space near the promenade, and with it, movement. A group of people had gathered under the shade of low trees and a concrete overpass. They weren’t professionals, just city dwellers drawn into rhythm. Salsa beats pulsed from a small speaker, and the dancers, barefoot or in heels, swayed and spun like they had always belonged to this moment.
There was something grounding in the simplicity. No stage, no lights, no audience. Just strangers turning into pairs, letting the music guide them. Some danced tightly together, others let the music drift through them freely. In those steps, under the fading sun, it felt like the city itself was exhaling.
Moments like this are why we walk, why we carry cameras, why we look closer. They remind us that joy doesn’t always need a plan—it just needs a beat.
The Turning Point~
Today marks a shift, subtle but unmistakable—the summer solstice, the longest day of the year in Germany. There is something nearly imperceptible that begins to change with this day. We are at the apex of light, the furthest reach before the slow retreat back into longer nights. It’s a strange comfort, this knowledge that time keeps moving, and that even light must ebb.
As the day stretched luxuriously into the evening, the sun lingered over the horizon, turning the fields gold. There’s a stillness that comes with such moments, as if everything is aware of its part in the turning wheel of the year. The barn, in the image I imagined, standing solitary in the field, catches the last of the golden rays, grounded and patient. Time circles around it as it always has.
This solstice is more than a marker of time—it is a quiet invitation to notice. To witness how light plays on a young woman’s face and on grass, how a shadow stretches, how warmth rests on the skin longer than it did yesterday. It’s a reminder that we live in rhythm, even when we forget. This long day comes, it holds us in light, and it too, passes.
The Red Umbrella Dance~
We had no plan that evening, just the sea, the sand, and the last light of day brushing everything with warmth. My daughter picked up the red umbrella we had carried for shade earlier, and without a word, she stepped into the water and began to dance with the wind.
It was one of those simple moments—unexpected, light, and full of movement. She spun, the umbrella tilted, and the waves timed their rhythm with her steps. I stood nearby, camera in hand, letting the scene shape itself. There was no need to direct or arrange. She was part of the landscape, and the beach in Thailand held her energy gently.
There’s something about umbrellas in photographs that has always drawn me in. They pop into a scene like mushrooms after rain—slightly out of place but also completely at home. They change the balance of an image. They can be shields, sails, or secret hiding places. Who first imagined such an object? Records point back to ancient China and Egypt, where parasols were symbols of status long before they were about weather. But what matters more in a photo is the feeling they bring—of whimsy, surprise, and a little magic.
In that short time, with the sea swirling around her and the red canopy catching wind like a story about to lift off, my daughter wasn’t just playing. She was stepping into that quiet spell umbrellas cast—one that turns a small moment into something quietly unforgettable.
Half-Told Stories~
There are times when an image surfaces in the editing process and stops everything. This man’s face did that. I remember taking this photo in Beijing years ago. His expression held something quiet but complex—like an unfinished sentence left lingering in the air. There was a strength there, but also a trace of something lost or misdirected. Not defeat, but a story that did not land where it was supposed to.
He didn’t have the air of someone who had let go. I’ve seen that many times before, especially during my time in New York. The slump, the haze, the quiet submission to a downward spiral. But he stood differently. Alert. Present. There was still a grip on something essential. Maybe his circumstances were the result of a shift that happened too quickly, or too quietly. Or maybe this is exactly where his life was meant to lead him, through this path, with its bruises and its clarity.
I remember wondering about his origins. Who raised him? What did his childhood sound like? What laughter shaped him? And what fractured the path enough to place him here, meeting a stranger’s lens for just a breath in time?
These are the stories that never fully reveal themselves. The streets are full of them—half exposed, half imagined. They ask for no answers. Just a moment of noticing.
The Viewfinder and the Road~
It’s strange how images can bring the past into such sharp focus. These photographs, tucked away for years, pulled me back into moments that feel both distant and intimately familiar. Each frame from China in 2009 carries the sound of the shutter, the scent of the landscape, and the silent connection formed with strangers met on dusty paths.
I’ve never really forgotten why I travel or photograph. It’s not a memory to retrieve—it’s more like a constant pulse that sometimes quiets under the noise of daily life. But seeing these again—on the Great Wall, on riverboats, walking the alleys of water towns, speaking with women balancing baskets—reminds me of how that camera has always been more than just a tool. It’s been a bridge.
Leaving Lebanon in 1987 was the start of everything. At the time, I didn’t know photography would be my companion. I just felt the world needed to be seen. Over the years, I learned that the act of looking—through a lens or directly into someone’s eyes—reveals so much. Their lives, their joys, their challenges, and their humanity. The photos are just one way of saying: I see you.
And now, while wars brew and tensions rise again, I return to these scenes not just for nostalgia, but as a quiet protest against what is broken. Because there is still so much worth discovering in each other. The road is always there, and so is the viewfinder.
A Portrait in Pieces~
This image began as a self-portrait, one I chose to deconstruct and rebuild—layer by layer—until it felt more honest. What emerged was a portrait of the fragmentation that creeps into daily life. Thoughts scatter, needs collide, responsibilities tug in separate directions, and through it all we keep moving. The visual noise reflects the inner one.
There’s a kind of invisible choreography that takes place each day: scheduling, planning, holding space for others, for work, for life. The pace feels accelerated lately, like something slightly out of sync with the body’s natural rhythm. And while it might not be unnatural, it is undeniably exhausting. It’s not just about tasks, it’s about how many parts of ourselves are required to show up—mentally, physically, emotionally—at any given moment.
This morning at 4am, I woke with a full mind. It had already started its day before the rest of me had a chance to catch up. I asked it to pause, to wait, just for a few moments. And surprisingly, it did. That tiny success felt important. A quiet rebellion against the momentum that never seems to stop.
Maybe these rare still moments, where all the fragmented pieces meet, are the ones where we find some truth. Maybe they are the self-portrait, unedited.
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