There’s something healing about a walk in the woods. Not the kind you rush through to check your step count, but the kind where you slow down—really slow down—and let the world reveal itself.
That’s what happened today—after a rather diabolical summer. First came the humidity, thick enough to swallow whole days. Then, when the air finally broke, it brought wildfire smoke instead. We usually walk a lot. It’s part of our rhythm. But this? This has been what I call the lost summer. Tom calls it the stolen summer. Either way, it hasn’t felt like ours.
But today, something shifted.
Butterflies. Everywhere. Flickering like sparks. Drifting like petals. They weren’t rare species or perfectly posed for photos. They were just… there. At least a dozen of them. Orange ones, deep indigo ones, sunlit wings and shadow dances.
And of course, I didn’t have a fancy camera. Just a cheap phone, shaky hands, and no illusions of getting “the perfect shot.” But I tried anyway. And when I got home and looked at the photos? Blurry. Grainy. Glorious.
Because here’s the thing: the best pictures aren’t the ones with the highest resolution. They’re the ones that carry a moment. This one carries the buzz of summer heat, the stillness of shade, the gasp of joy when a butterfly lands too close to believe.
So, I edited two of my favorite shots. A little contrast, a little sharpen, a little saturation. Not to fake the moment—but to honor it. To say, I saw you. I remember.
Sometimes, nature shows up for us in ways we don’t expect. Not as a grand escape, but as a quiet reminder: the world is still making beauty. Even when we’re not trying. Even when we’re tired. Even when we only have a cheap phone and a wide-open heart.
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