Bed of Roses

Bed of RosesIve always felt a pull toward the wild edges of the worldthe places where the air hums with the rustle of leaves, where sunlight dances through petals, and where silence feels like a heartbeat. Its in nature that I find myself most at home, where the ache in my chest softens into something tender, something alive. For years, I didnt know how to name that feeling, but its been there, steady and persistent, like the roots of an old oak threading through

I’ve always felt a pull toward the wild edges of the world—the places where the air hums with the rustle of leaves, where sunlight dances through petals, and where silence feels like a heartbeat. It’s in nature that I find myself most at home, where the ache in my chest softens into something tender, something alive. For years, I didn’t know how to name that feeling, but it’s been there, steady and persistent, like the roots of an old oak threading through the earth. When I started photographing, I wasn’t chasing that longing—at least, not consciously. I was just drawn to beauty: the curve of a face, the sweep of a flower, the way light could hold both in a single breath. But over time, my camera became a way to reach for something deeper, something I could feel but not yet see.

"Tangled Up in Beauty" wasn’t a project I planned. It grew out of me, piece by piece, the way vines climb a trellis—slowly, organically, with a will of their own. I’d been taking portraits for years—mostly my daughter's faces that carried stories in their eyes, in the tilt of their mouths. And I’d been photographing nature too—delicate rhododendron petals floating on a lake, fern fronds unfurling in the morning mist, the jagged elegance of a magnolia bloom, tree stumps on a CA lake. At some point, I started blending them on my computer, layering the human and the floral until they became something new. A woman’s profile softened by the translucent sweep of leaves. A pair of eyes peering through a cascade of petals. The images weren’t just composites—they felt like revelations.

The first time I saw one of these layered images take shape on my screen, I sat there, mouse still in hand, and felt my breath catch. It was as if the photograph had peeled back a layer of my own skin. The flora didn’t hide the portrait—it unveiled it. The vulnerability of the human form, the fragility of a flower—they spoke to each other. I realized I wasn’t just making pictures anymore. I was chasing that ache I’d felt in the forest, that longing for connection to something vast and divine. The process became a mirror, reflecting back the beauty I’d always sought in brokenness, the way a cracked branch can still hold the weight of new growth.

That’s what "Tangled up in Beauty" is to me now—a hymn to longing. Each image is a prayer, a way of reaching for the divine thread that ties us to nature. The translucence of the flora in my photographs doesn’t obscure—it reveals. It’s a glimpse beneath the surface, a whisper of the human spirit laid bare. I’ve come to see that this work isn’t just about the beauty I capture; it’s about what that beauty does to us. It entangles us, pulls us in, and asks us to stand still long enough to feel the ache of being human. For me, that ache is sweetest when I’m surrounded by trees or watching petals drift across still water. It’s the closest I come to home.

I’m still uncovering what this series means. Every time I sit down to blend a new image or wander into the woods, I find new layers—new depths to the longing that drives me. I don’t think I’ll ever finish peeling them back. But for now, "Tangled Up in Beauty" is my way of sharing that journey. It’s an invitation to look closer—at the portraits, the leaves, ourselves—and to feel the divine connection that hums beneath it all. It’s about being overtaken by magnificence, about letting beauty break us open and hold us there, tangled and whole.