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June 9th. Tuesday.

I just want to feel the air around me.

To touch the grass. To watch plants grow.

She is still inside of me, that little girl so full of wonder for the things she sees.

Nothing matters as much as this present moment.

The air is different now - thinner, perhaps, or simply more still.

She arrived just over two weeks ago, a brief window of time that felt both like a heartbeat and an eternity. We didn’t know then that this journey would be her final one in this world, but as the days unfolded, we found ourselves in a new kind of rhythm: the rhythm of "carrying." In those hours of tending to her, there was a still appreciation for every shared breath. We watched life fade in front of our eyes. A sudden break.

When we said our last goodbye, our hearts were heavy yet strangely full. There is a profound gratitude in being allowed to stay so close to the flame as it flickers out, even as the silence she left behind feels immense. It is often said that when someone close dies, a part of us dies too. Our natural instinct is to pull inward and shut down the emotional pain, trying to freeze time just to hold onto a closeness that is no longer physical.

But the garden was waiting.

I found my safe haven there, among the damp earth and the patient trees. Nature doesn’t ask us to “recover”; it simply invites us to witness. As Sue Stuart-Smith writes in The Well Gardened Mind, the garden keeps us “constantly faced with disappearance and return.” In the soil, there is no hierarchy between life and death, they are the same breath, exhaled and inhaled. In the soil, I see last year’s faded growth becoming the food for this year’s new shoots. Nature does not hide from death; it turns it into life. I began to understand that mourning is not an interruption. It is the quiet work of the heart, preparing the ground for a new beginning.

This empty space, this loss, is where the first stirrings of creation begin. If we didn’t know the hollow of absence, we would never feel the urge to fill it with beauty. Grief leaves a void, and in that void, there is a primal need to plant something, to speak back to the silence. Gardening is a quiet act of defiance. It is setting life in motion when the world feels like it has stopped.

Seeds are the keepers of our beginnings. They carry the memory of what was, yet they wake up every morning intent on recreating the world anew. They remind me that nothing is ever truly lost; it is only waiting to be transformed.

So, I am growing a garden right next to her now. It is my memory of her, written in green. Every time I press my hands into the cool, dark earth, I am still caring for her. I am learning that to love is to accept the disappearing, and to garden is to believe in the return. In the watering and the waiting, I am finding that while a part of me left with her, a new part of me is beginning to leaf out.

Life is lost but it is found again in the scent of rain on soil and the stubborn, beautiful persistence of a seedling breaking through the dark.

How could I tell a story that is felt as much as it is seen?
How can I bring emotions and experiences alive and share them not only through images but through the atmosphere they hold?

A journey through unspoken words began without a defined form. It started simply as a way of gathering moments - through photographs and typewritten text.

There are things we feel so deeply yet cannot easily express in words. Photography became my way of translating them, capturing what cannot be said but can be felt.

Over the past few years, I’ve been collecting these images, letting them rest, and slowly allowing them to find their rhythm. Now, as I experiment with sequencing, layout, paper, and print, the project is beginning to take a more tangible form. The first dummy is taking its shape. All very fragile, unfinished, but carries the spirit of what might come.

The process - from intuition to tangible form

As the project unfolds, I’ve become fascinated by how images begin to speak to one another. One photograph changes when placed beside another; a story begins to appear not through words, but through rhythm and emotion.

The first step was selecting images. This stage felt intuitive. Choosing what resonates, what carries a truth. From there comes sequencing - a process both playful and meditative. I print the images, spread them across my desk or floor, and move them around, searching for a flow that feels right. It’s in these moments of arranging and rearranging that the story begins to reveal itself.

Digital tools, like a Miro board, help me see the bigger picture, to play with order and pacing, but I always return to the tactile process. There’s something grounding about touching the prints, seeing how they speak to each other in real space.

Then come the design decisions: the size of the images, the dimensions of the book or zine, the texture of the paper, how it will fold, open and rest in someone’s hands. Each choice shapes how the work will be experienced, how the emotions will translate when held.

I now have a first home-printed dummy - imperfect, unfinished, yet precious. A tangible step in a fascinating journey.

What Remains

At its heart, A journey through unspoken words is about memory, belonging, and the spaces between language. It reflects on how places hold us, how they gather our stories, laughter, and silences, and how they continue to live within us long after we leave.

Ultimately, it’s about home, not as a fixed place, but as a state of being. A map of moments when the light was warm, the air was filled with songbirds, and the world felt both vast and tender.

This project continues to teach me patience - how creative work, much like memory, takes time to surface. I’m learning to listen to what wants to stay and what can be let go. I don’t want to rush toward the end, but to allow space for what’s unspoken to slowly emerge, inviting the viewer / reader to find their own interpretation, perhaps even their own story, within the experience.

When we photograph mindfully, we’re not simply documenting the world, we’re curating a view of it. Each image becomes a small window into the present moment, what we saw, how we felt, what we wanted to remember.

Framing isn’t only about composition or lines. It’s about emotion. Intuition. Connection. About choosing what to include, and what to gently set aside.

Sometimes that means narrowing in on the smallest of details like a hand touching the surface of water, a leaf resting on the ground, an evening light slipping through a window. Other times it means pulling back, letting space and silence speak.

In this practice, we begin to ask different questions:
What am I truly seeing?
What feeling is present in this moment?
What will deepen connection and what might distract from it?

It’s not about perfection. It’s about intention.

To photograph this way is to slow down long enough to listen - to your surroundings, and to yourself. A mindful frame isn’t just a visual choice, it’s a felt one. You become a guide for the viewer, shaping not just what they see, but how they connect.

A prompt:

On your next walk, pause before you lift the camera. Look through the viewfinder and ask: What emotion am I framing? Then gently shift your perspective. Try including or excluding one element. Notice how the feeling changes.

Your camera doesn’t just capture, it communicates.
Let each frame be a conversation between your inner world and the world around you.

This is the second invitation in my Walk with Me series, a journey into mindful photography and presence.

Today, I invite you to take it a step further.
Not just to see, but to feel.
To let stillness open the door to something deeper.

Invitation #2: Letting Stillness Speak

Choose a spot to pause - on a walk, in a park, by your window, or anywhere that draws your attention. Stay there for a few minutes. Let your gaze rest without searching.

Notice what changes when you stop moving:
- the shift in light
- the rhythm of your breath
- the pull of your thoughts
- the presence of sounds or silence
- the way your body feels in space

Then, without rushing, photograph one detail that captures that felt moment.

It could be a leaf hanging in the still air.
The shadow of your hand on a sunlit wall.
Or something simple that, in this quiet, feels full of presence.

Let the image reflect not just what your eyes noticed, but what the moment offered, when you gave it space.

Journaling Prompts

• What unfolded when you gave yourself permission to be still?

• How did your body respond to being still while observing?

• What does “presence” feel like to you, right now?

May what you notice in stillness stay with you, held in presence.

Inspired by my own experience, where photography became a tool for introspection, this space (that may soon grow into a series) is an exploration of both the outer world and the inner landscape.
A quiet practice of seeing, sensing, and being present.

It’s not about the perfect frame or technical know-how.
It’s about opening the way we look.
Listening through the lens.
Noticing what often escapes us in the rush.

Each entry will offer:

• a poetic reflection

• a mindful photo activity

• and optional journaling prompts

You don’t need any special equipment. Just a willingness to pause, look closer, and listen.

Today’s Invitation: Seeing Beyond the Surface

Take a short, familiar walk. It can be as close as your street, your garden, your home.

Let yourself arrive slowly, feel the ground, hear the sounds, take in the smells.

Then pause.

Let your eye settle on something not obviously beautiful: a crack in the pavement, a smudged window, a rusty hinge.

Before you lift the camera:

• Notice the interplay of light and shadow

• Trace the texture, lines, and subtle colour shifts

• Ask gently: What draws me here? What might this object or moment be holding?

Let your lens (or phone, or even just your gaze) capture not just an object, but a story, a moment with meaning, however small.

Journaling Prompts:

• What surprised me when I looked a little longer?

• How does slowing down change the way I feel in my body?

• What story does this image carry—for me?

I’d love to know what you notice.
Feel free to reply here, or share your image/reflection.

Thank you for walking with me.