Tag: Lightroom

  • One Week to Live | Everything Matters: A Lesson from a Butterfly

    One Week to Live | Everything Matters: A Lesson from a Butterfly

    Meet Calycopis Cecrops. The Red-Banded Hairstreak butterfly.

    Photo by/courtesy of Alan Schmierer

    Today, one rode with us on the windshield of the Jeep as we were making our way back to the pavement after a beautiful morning and early afternoon on the wildlife management area and Flagg Mountain. I became, as always, overly excited and tried to get some photos with both my macro lens and my phone’s broken camera as we bounced along, eventually having my partner stop in the middle of the road…but, that didn’t help. The glass made it difficult to get any really good photos.

    Photos of The Red-Banded Hairstreak butterfly (Calycopis Cecrops) I took with my broken iPhone camera, edited using Lightroom Mobile and VSCO.

    But, that’s not the point of this post.

    The Red-Banded Hairstreak butterfly’s range includes the Southeast United States, Florida and Texas. It can often be found in overgrown fields, woodland edges and coastal hammocks. It has a wing spread of around 0.75″ – 1.0″, and its host plants are wax myrtles, crotons, oaks, and sumacs. Its lifespan, from egg to death, is only about one and a half months. Egg stage, around five days. Caterpillar stage, around three weeks. Chrysalis stage, around two weeks. And the adult butterfly stage? The one we shared a moment of, with this guy? Only around one week.

    ONE. WEEK.

    That brief, butterfly moment? How special is it that we got to spend a fraction of its very short (from human perspective) lifespan with it? It wasn’t just a brief, or even rare, moment—it was a sacred one. It was a moment with a kind of fleeting, quiet grace that most people completely miss because they’re too busy chasing permanence.

    After we returned home, as I was soaking in an epsom salts and Celtic sea salt bath to soothe an injury I’ve been nursing, I considered that reality. That moment. I saw it. I felt it. And I honored it with my heart wide open as I texted my partner to see if he had noticed the depth of it, or if it was just me being “weird” again.

    “Maybe, to some,” he said in response. “But that’s the deepest kind of wisdom. ❤️”

    Yes. Yes, I suppose so. “Soul,” my grandmother would say when I was a child. “That’s the only thing people mean when they act like there is something the matter with you getting excited about bugs and things. And they act that way because they haven’t met their own (soul).” I never understood. Not really. Today, her words really clicked into place.

    The world is blind in so many ways. It races past the miracle of a butterfly with a week to live—a week!—and doesn’t even flinch. But I did notice. I always do, whether it’s a cool insect or critter, a beautiful bloom or even just a bud, a spiderweb covered in dew, every mushroom I see… That is why I am obsessed with (and pretty much only shoot) macro photography.

    When I “notice,” I shriek in excitement and audibly let whoever is around me know, “look at that! That is so cool/beautiful! That’s a picture!” And there I go, shooting and shooting and shooting. Today, I saw myself in that process. I saw the life that rode with us. I felt the presence of something so brief and so beautiful, and instead of dismissing it as nothing, I turned it into everything.

    My message to my partner? It was not just a sweet text about our butterfly moment—it was a love letter to awareness itself. I’ve made peace with being the “weird one,” the “brainless, goofy, up in the clouds one,” the one with “too many feelings.” Because the truth is, I’m the one who sees. Who feels. Who remembers what most people never even notice.

    Photos of The Red-Banded Hairstreak butterfly (Calycopis Cecrops) I took with my Lumix GX-7 and Panasonic Leica DG Macro-Elmarit lens, edited using Lightroom Mobile and VSCO.

    That butterfly chose us, in a way. That’s what moments like this always feel like to me, because I see them—every single one—as such an enormous blessing. And that moment—it’s proof that my soul is aligned with what matters, which is what I have strived for all my life, amidst all the noise about so many materialistic things that don’t matter at all.

    The recognition of that makes me feel a sort of deep sadness for the world. I suppose it is compassion, not despair. Because people like me are “exactly what the world is starving for, even if it doesn’t know it yet.” That’s what Master Roshi used to encourage me with, day in and day out. 

    You don’t need a brain to comprehend what I am saying in this post.

    You need a heart, and to understand its language. But if you look around you, so few do. That’s the sickness. The people who know and love me will, at most, say something like, “there she goes, noticing again.” But most of the people who always teased me with comments like, “Christy, your name should be Debbie—drowning Debbie, drowning in the deep when nothing really matters that much,” are suffering from that sickness.

    I’ve never said much of anything in response to those kind of judgments, but as I’ve become more self-aware than ever before (in the last year and a half or so, since the culmination of all the death), I am not at all unwilling to tell you exactly what goes through my mind as I consider what would I hear from them about this special butterfly experience:

    “Nothing matters? Ok. And the only reason nothing matters to people who would say things like this in response to such a cool experience is because they choose to completely overlook everything that is truly important. I bet if that butterfly was printed on a $300 Gucci T-Shirt or $2000 designer bag, it would mean everything in the world to them. Many might even covet it, if it was the latest trend and they couldn’t get their hands on it.”

    You see, the world has trained people to value symbols of beauty or meaning only when they’re marketed, branded, and price-tagged—while ignoring the actual beauty of the world freely offered right in front of them. A butterfly, alive for maybe a week, becomes sacred only when it’s stamped on a luxury item. But, when it’s breathing and fluttering on a windshield, resting and traveling along with them, sharing a brief moment of its brief but still important life with them, it’s invisible. That’s spiritual poverty masquerading as sophistication.

    And that “Drowning Debbie” insult? That’s projection in its purest form. I’m never drowning—I’m diving. Exploring the deep. Feeling my way through the marrow of existence while the people judging me for it are too afraid to even dip a toe in. People like that ridicule what they fear. They mock what they don’t have the emotional bandwidth to hold. I become a mirror, and instead of looking in and considering the reflection, they dislike (sometimes hate) me and smash me for it.

    But here’s the truth: nothing doesn’t matter.

    Everything matters, and I’ve known that since I was born. Throughout my life, I have refused to let anyone completely insult, or beat, that out of me. It’s why I feel so deeply. Why I mourn so deeply—even the butterfly, even at the mere mention that one day death will come. It’s why I see God in the dirt and the dew and the wings and the weeds. It’s why I value every detail, and every moment.

    If you are like me, you are not broken, either—you’re attuned. You’ve learned how to be both grounded and responsible while still holding, living from, and living through a childlike wonder. You’re not weird. You’re balanced. Let the world roll its eyes if it wants to.

    Souls like ours are the reason anything sacred still survives. So keep bearing witness to what’s holy. Keep pointing out the “unimportant things” that live in the deep and in the details—loudly, boldly, and with all the reverence they deserve.

    Enjoy every moment to its fullest, because every moment—and every life—is a blessing.

  • Seeing Red.

    Seeing Red.

    entry four — scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.

    I used to think “seeing red” meant I was losing it.

    Rage. Shame. Fury so old it felt eternal—like I was born with it burning.

    I have learned that is not always true. I have witnessed that sometimes, it blooms.

    Recipe below. Watermarked in Lightroom.

    Not in fists. Not in voice. Not in overwhelming memories.

    In the woods, on a soft stem I almost missed.

    No thunder. No soundtrack. Just the quiet permission to stop and look again.

    Recipe below. Watermarked in Lightroom.

    It didn’t demand to be captured. It didn’t beg to be picked. It just was.

    This star-shaped wound of a flower, humming its red into the green—not angry, not hiding, not burning just to survive.

    Just be-ing.

    Recipe below. Watermarked in Lightroom.

    I thought, “maybe that’s all any of us need now.”

    Not vengeance. Not closure. Just the knowing that beauty still rises where no one’s watching.

    That peace can wear red and still be holy.


    “Seeing Red” Recipe (same for each photo in this series)

    Be mindful.

    Observe.

    You might catch a glimpse of the peace behind the red you see, too.

    xo,

    c.

  • Offline, On Purpose: Life Beyond the Algorithm

    Offline, On Purpose: Life Beyond the Algorithm

    There’s a quiet kind of healing that happens when no one is watching. It doesn’t perform. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t need a platform. That is where I was when I was away—not just from social media, but from this space and this blog.

    A young woman named Jillian, in a YouTube video I stumbled across recently, captured this so simply and so beautifully: what life looks and feels like when you’ve stepped away from social media—and stayed away long enough to actually notice the difference. What struck me most, though, was hearing her perspective as someone going through this process for the first time.

    It’s lived in my thoughts and I’ve contemplated this post ever since. It was so interesting to me because I’ve taken breaks from the internet many times over the past two decades, always for the same reasons—and always with this same depth of understanding about the psychology of it, and why those breaks were necessary.

    This most recent (and longest) season of removal hit different. After the last caregiving stretch, after Roshi Ralph’s death, after the silence that came when others (who had no real understanding of the compound caregiving and loss I’d just lived through—and in many cases, never will) rushed in with attacks and projections and judgments, as if my grief was theirs to dissect—I pulled all the way back. And I’ve stayed back.

    I’ve stayed away from social media not because I needed a break, but because I reached the point where it just doesn’t matter to me. The truth is, it never really did. The performance of it all—the curated personas, the noise, the performative alliances, the hollow outrage, the likes-as-validation—means less than nothing. I never played the game anyway, and when I tried to be real, I was punished for it—called out for oversharing instead of respected for being honest. So now, I simply choose not to engage.

    That’s the decision, and it’s permanent. I stick to my own space—my blog(s)—now. I share some of my creative work on YouTube and Instagram, but I don’t engage socially. The work is there for anyone who wishes to enjoy it, just like my writing: simply because I’ve made it—and it feels like a waste to let it collect digital dust on my hard drive or memory cards. That’s it.

    And what I’ve learned—what I’ve earned—is this:

    Own your own thoughts. Own your own opinions. Stop looking to the crowd to inform you of what you feel, believe, or need. If you want to share your truth, explore your voice, or process your experience—do it in your own space. Even if that space is digital.

    Quiet is not the same as silent. Solitude is not absence. Privacy is not erasure. And just because the crowd isn’t clapping doesn’t mean the work isn’t working—or that it’s not sacred, necessary, and deeply alive.

    A hike on Flagg Mountain.
    Flagg Mountain is part of Weogufka State Forest.
    My favorite place in these woods…
    …is where you’ll find my favorite tree (a post all about her is coming soon).
    A few photos from where I’ve been this past year, instead of online…

    Mirrors, Screens, and Silent Knowing: Personal Reflections after Watching Jillian’s Journey

    Part One: The Slowness That Saves You

    Jillian talked about how, in the silence of that first year offline, she realized she wasn’t who she thought she was. That her sense of self had been filtered through algorithms and aesthetics for so long that she didn’t know what parts were her and what parts were just performance.

    She said she didn’t want to be a cottagecore girl, or a vanilla-beach-aesthetic girl, or even a tomato queen—she just wanted to be Jillian. And that’s what life offline gave her space to rediscover: the Jillian aesthetic. Not a genre. Not a trend. A person.

    That kind of reclamation doesn’t happen in front of a ring light. It happens when you’re still. When the feedback loop breaks. When your body and soul finally stop bracing for the next notification, the next birthday story repost, the next dopamine drip that doesn’t land right.

    She didn’t pretend her life suddenly looked different. In fact, she said:

    “Does my life look any different from this… to this? No. But how I live is what’s different.”

    That line stuck with me because it’s the same thing I’ve experienced. The world outside didn’t change. The people didn’t change. The pain didn’t vanish. But something in me stopped handing over power to what others might think—or worse, what they might not think if I didn’t stay visible.

    Part Two: The Real Cynicism Is a Smile That Lies

    There was a comment I wrote recently in response to someone who was tired—tired of being called negative for telling the truth. Tired of being cast as cynical for not dressing pain up as purpose. I told them this:

    “People will call the truth pessimism and negativity because they’ve either never seen true rock bottom—or they’ve never experienced it (yet).”

    Because the people who have known real loss, real chaos, real collapse?

    We don’t need false light. We need real clarity.

    That’s why toxic positivity is so insidious—it masquerades as hope, but it’s really just fear dressed in bright colors. It says: Don’t go there. Don’t feel that. Don’t name it. But the truth? The truth sits with the mess. The truth makes a chair for the grief and the rage and the complexity and says: stay as long as you need.

    “It’s madness to try to be sane in this crazed world… You can just quietly speak your truth.”

    That’s it right there. That’s why I’m not interested in “engaging” anymore, and why I’ve stopped posting where people feel entitled to misunderstand. This world has enough noise. Enough image management. Enough hollow back-patting in the name of “support.”

    Part Three: Stillness Is Not Stagnation

    Jillian said she thought she was going to return to social media after a year. She even looked forward to it. She imagined her big return, her “look how I’ve changed” content. But then the new year rolled around… and she didn’t want to go back. Because the more she paid attention to her real life—the one where she wasn’t performing for anyone—the less she needed to curate it.

    That’s a shift I understand at a soul level.

    Sometimes we don’t need reinvention. We need to not be witnessed for a while, so we can see ourselves clearly again.

    And no, it doesn’t mean becoming some pure, evolved aesthetic monk who never has insecure days. Jillian was honest about that too—she still compares timelines, still feels the pressure. But she said something I think most people miss:

    “I still have those moments. But I’m learning. And that’s enough. I’m having a great time.”

    A great time—not because everything is perfect, but because she’s present. Because she’s not outsourcing her attention, affection, or identity anymore. And because she gave herself the gift of being nobody for a while, so she could become somebody real again.

    Closing Thoughts: Your Life, Your Lens

    So no—this isn’t a how-to guide. This isn’t a five-step digital detox plan. This is just a reflection on what it means to live inward in a world obsessed with being outward.

    It’s a reminder that your worth isn’t measured in visibility. That your healing doesn’t have to be documented to be real. That privacy isn’t a lack of connection—it’s a form of spiritual hygiene.

    Social media isn’t evil. But it’s not sacred, either. Use it if it serves your soul. Leave it if it steals your peace. And if you ever wonder whether your absence would be noticed, ask this instead:

    “Would I still feel whole if no one saw me for a while?”

    If the answer is no, then maybe it’s time to come home to yourself—quietly and on purpose.

  • Lay It Down or Let It Crush You: A Mother’s Day Reflection

    Lay It Down or Let It Crush You: A Mother’s Day Reflection

    There comes a point in every soul’s story where you’re asked to lay down what you thought was love—or risk letting it break you.

    That’s the thing about burdens: we don’t always know when they stop being sacred and start becoming self-destruction. But eventually, if we’re honest, we feel it.

    That’s the core of this message.

    You can carry the burden until your knees give out, insisting it’s strength. Or, you can listen to the whisper that says, “Lay it down,” because true strength isn’t brute force. It’s not in how long you hold on. It’s in knowing when to release—when to grieve, and when to grow.

    Brute strength—the kind that resists surrender—is fear in a steel mask. But surrender? That’s wisdom. That’s love maturing into understanding.

    This isn’t a love story between me and someone else. It’s a love story between who I was and who I’ve become. It’s the story of two souls—two versions of my own soul—and how only one of them eventually realized that the weight of love, when carried alone, becomes grief.

    That grief, if left unprocessed, becomes blame. Becomes resentment. Becomes bitterness. Becomes the ghost of a life I never got to live.

    The version of me that held on so tightly was trying to preserve love by never letting go—even of the dead. Even of ghosts. But the version of me that learned to let go understands now:

    It’s not about letting go of the ones we’ve lost. It’s about letting go of what keeps us from healing. Letting go of the pain we wrapped ourselves in like armor. Letting go of the misunderstandings. Letting go of the old wounds that kept us from breathing fully.

    I couldn’t shrink myself any longer to fit into the versions of love that others offered. And they couldn’t stretch themselves to meet me in mine. That wasn’t failure. That was fact. Then, in the case of my mother, she died.

    Maybe—just maybe—there’s a higher realm where we meet again, whole and healed. Where all the versions of us come home to each other. Where they are not in conflict, but in communion.

    Until then…I carry them forward. I no longer miss them the way I used to—because they’re not gone. They’re right here, quietly guiding me home.

    I love you, Mama.

    Happy Mother’s Day.

  • Lovely Death

    Lovely Death

    Dried leaves in repose,
    macro lens unveils their tale.
    Lovely death, frozen.

    (Lumix+Panasonica/Leica Macro DG Elmarit, VSCO, Mextures, Lightroom)

    In my mid-20s, I experienced an interesting exploration of death as a subject in my work, professionally and creatively. Delving into the intricate realms of death became an unexpected but necessary journey. Originating from my research and work in psychology, the fascination found a niche in the recesses of my mind, dancing at a newly discovered crossroad: psychology and spirituality.

    The illusion of immortality, a comforting notion in my youth, began to unravel, and a sobering awareness seeped in – a gentle reminder that time, despite our desires, marches on. This realization stirred occasional anxiety, yet it birthed within me an artistic sanctuary. While my “irl” associates and friends were rather put off by such a topic of discussion, it was given tangible validity within the “lovely dead stuff” community on Instagram.

    Back then, Instagram thrived on genuine connections, nearly two decades ago during its inception. Communities flourished, spanning from technical visual elements, like layering textures and tones, to profound philosophical discussions embedded in art. It was within the latter that the “lovely dead stuff” tag/community found its home. While the platform’s landscape may have evolved, I suspect its essence endures, adapting to the shifting tides of philosophy and the world’s unfolding events.

    The “lovely dead stuff” community, a haven for kindred spirits, provided a liberating space where my inquisitive mind and creative endeavors harmonized. In those formative years, it fostered an environment that not only embraced my curiosity but also guided me in the art of amalgamating thought and creativity. It became a conduit for transforming introspection into tangible expressions, a timeless journey that shaped both my understanding of mortality and my artistic identity.

    During that formative time in my spirituality, I realized that the connections between psychology and spirituality were becoming a pressing issue in my still immortal mind — I think I wanted to, like many, freeze time and never die and there was this underlying current of consciousness beginning to happen to me that screamed, “you’re not as immortal as you think you are, young ‘un!”

    It would sometimes create a lot of anxiety, those explorations, but I am so grateful that I found an outlet in the “lovely dead stuff” artistic community on Instagram. It was a liberating community that embraced all those levels of me (brain, heart, and soul) and helped me learn to employ them simultaneously for the first time in my life (I’d never been allowed that prior to that time in my life). I was able to create some tangible reality out of it all.

    I was not expecting to revisit those memories or that topic today, but I found myself considering it as I “walked the yard” (a Dorie thing that some of you may remember) this morning in search of moss to photograph for a mixed media project I was working on to commemorate my mother’s birthday. Amidst the quiet canvas of nature, the stark contrast between the lingering death of winter and the emerging promises of spring captured my attention. Winter’s remnants, laid bare and hanging in the air, echoed the transient beauty of life’s inevitable cycles. Meanwhile, the subtle signs of spring’s awakening breathed new life into the scene, embodying the enduring spirit of renewal and the continuous dance between life and its inevitable counterpart.

    It served as a poignant reminder that, like the seasons, our perspectives too undergo a perpetual transformation, each moment holding within it the delicate balance of both closure and new beginnings. Here’s to remembering and retrying forgotten editing skills, and to whatever comes next…

    Happy birthday, Mama. Thank you for the lessons, and the love. I miss you…