Roots that Grow
New growth has a way of catching my eye, especially when it appears where I don’t expect it. Earlier, I stopped by a small garden and noticed a cluster of new buds crowding around the base of a plant. The shoots look like they belong to the grass and bamboo family, pushing up from the roots, one after another, as if the soil itself were quietly multiplying life. That habit always fascinates me. Given a steady drink of water, this kind of plant seems to take care of itself, spreading outward without much help from anyone.
I framed today’s set in four simple moments. The first is the base, tangled roots, a few aging stems, and a single white pebble someone placed there. That stone felt like a tiny act of care, a neighbor’s hand saying, “I see you.” I imagine more pebbles circling the plant, guiding the eye and making the space feel tidy and intentional.
The second frame focuses on a bud just before it unfurls, sleek, tight, and ready. In black and white, the surfaces shine, and the lines read cleanly. The third shows a lone spear piercing the mulch, the simplest gesture of growth. The last frame pauses on a young head forming in the center of broad leaves, already suggesting the shape it will take.
What I like about subjects like this is how little drama they ask for. No grand landscape, no perfect bloom, just patience and attention. Monochrome makes the texture and structure do the talking, the sheen of new tissue, the matte grit of soil, the soft highlight riding along each curve. It’s a quiet reminder that resilience is often small and repetitive. One shoot, then another. One thoughtful pebble, then a ring of them. And before long, a corner of the garden feels more alive, and more cared for, than it did yesterday.
”To see in color is a delight for the eye, but to see in black and white is delight for the soul.”
You really explore so many places