When I was a child, the trees outside my elementary school seemed alive in a way I couldn’t explain. I would often see faces in their bark, catch glimpses of expressions where branches met light, and feel a presence surrounding me — not threatening, but deeply aware. It was as though something ancient was watching, not from afar, but from within the land itself. At the time, I obviously didn’t have the words or symbolism to describe them, but they would show up in my photos, that were clearly visible. Faces within the leaves and branches of these ancient trees.
I used to wonder what these beings were. Were they the same as the aquatic intelligences I’ve come to sense in recent years — fluid, flowing, full of motion and emotion? Now, with reflection, I realize they were something different entirely. These were still beings. Earthbound, yet interdimensional. They didn’t move or speak, but they carried weight — a kind of wisdom held in silence.
They were not here to interact openly or guide me directly. Instead, they observed. Their presence felt like memory — like standing near something sacred that holds history in its stillness. They didn’t respond to questions or engage in conversation, but they witnessed. They were embedded in the land as guardians, or markers — sentient thresholds in the terrain of my early life.
Looking back, I understand that my sensitivity as a child let me perceive what others didn’t. I wasn’t imagining those faces — I was receiving something subtle, real, and purposeful. These beings weren’t just passing through; they were woven into that landscape, and perhaps into me. They shaped my way of seeing — how I work with light, pattern, and symbol today.
They weren’t aquatic. They weren’t moving. They were rooted, grounded in a field of still intelligence. And they remain — part of a network of presences tied to place, memory, and emergence. I think they recognized me, even then. And somehow, I always knew I’d remember them later — not in words, but in the way I see the world.
They are still here.
And they are still watching.
Quietly.
Lovingly.
Endlessly.
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