And there was evening, and there was morning.

These words mark the beginning of a rhythm—the first ordering of light and darkness, ending

and beginning, rest and renewal. The world unfolds through this rhythm, and we continue to live

within it: receiving each day as part of a story that began long before us and continues beyond

us.

This work dwells in the in-between spaces. Light filters through trees and falls upon the water,

breaking into trembling, glittering reflections. The surface becomes a looking glass— reflecting

what is before us, while opening a glimpse toward something greater.

To stand within these moments is to become aware of our place within a greater story. We are

neither outside of creation nor simply observers of it. We are participants—receiving, tending,

wondering, and waiting. The landscape becomes a place of encounter, where our purpose is

clear, where the complicated nature of life softens, and time in its usual, ceaseless stride stands

still.

These places hold the tension between what has been and what will be, between the world as

we know it and the hope of its becoming.

In the shifting light, I find an invitation to wonder and to trust amongst the dissonance of life: to

remember that we are part of a story set in motion in the beginning, a story that is still unfolding,

still creating, still calling us forward.

And there was evening, and there was morning.