My passion—and my joy—has always been landscape photography.

For me, it has never been about how many images I take, chasing the “perfect shot,” or obsessing over gear. Photography is my way of connecting—with nature, with light, with fleeting emotion, and most importantly, with the present moment. Whether I’m waiting for dawn to break over a mountain ridge or capturing the stillness of a quiet forest path, the camera becomes a tool for awareness, not distraction.

In today’s world, many are caught up in the pursuit of money, status, and appearances. Restlessness and discontent have crept into even the creative space. Social media often amplifies this, encouraging photographers to chase likes, followers, and online recognition.

The result? A flood of images—many of them technically strong, yet emotionally disconnected, created more to satisfy algorithms than to express vision.

The antidote to this, I believe, lies in mindfulness—a simple yet powerful practice often defined as present-moment awareness without judgment.

Mindfulness is the act of being fully present—whether you’re walking, eating, listening, or taking a photograph. Instead of reliving the past or anticipating the future, you engage with what’s here now. In this state, beauty often emerges from simplicity, and material concerns fade into the background.

Mindfulness implies being grateful for the beauty that already exists where we are.

“It is clear that our bodies still recognize nature as our home” - Yoshifumi Miyazaki, Japanese nature therapy researcher

As Miyazaki notes, our bodies instinctively synchronize with the rhythms of nature. Surrounded by it, we relax—and we come home to ourselves.

It is through mindfulness that we begin to ask deeper questions—such as: What is the purpose of landscape and nature photography? Is it something we can answer, or something we feel?

For some, photography is self-expression or storytelling. For others, it’s a way to preserve beauty, bear witness to fleeting light, or honor the landscape.

But approached mindfully, photography becomes less about the outcome and more about presence. It invites us to slow down, to observe without expectation, and to engage with our surroundings on a deeper level. In this quiet space, the “purpose” of the photograph may not be something we can explain—but something we sense.

In my earlier days, I focused on large format photography—a slow, deliberate process involving manually operated cameras and slow film. The upside-down, reversed image in the ground glass required care and full attention. Every step—setup, focus, exposure—was methodical. Returning with one or two images was enough.

Ground Yourself

Perhaps the greatest challenge in mindful photography is at the beginning. It’s easy to bring the noise of the day with us—worries, deadlines, distractions.

Pause. Take a few deep breaths. Listen to the sounds around you. Observe the light, the movement in the trees, the colors. Inhale deeply—what do you smell? Scent, more than any other sense, is tied to memory. It grounds us.

The purpose is to connect with the place. In a previous article, Anticipation, I wrote about the Japanese philosophy of Ichigo Ichie—"one lifetime, one meeting." The idea that this moment will never happen again. That sense of uniqueness brings life and meaning to our images.

The photographs that hang on my walls are those I’ve felt connected to. I can’t help but think this is part of what gave Claude Monet’s garden paintings such soul—he painted the place he lived for 43 years.

The Japanese practice of Shinrin-yoku—forest bathing—offers a powerful lesson: slow down. It’s a response to overstimulation from urban life, inviting calm and presence.

As you walk, don’t rush to find a subject. Observe patterns, textures, and shifting light. Let your gaze soften. Crouch low. Look up. Turn around. Pause often.

On a trip to the Netherlands, I stayed near a small park in Haarlem. I had never walked there before, so everything felt fresh. As I wandered, I found myself stopping to admire the curve of a tree, the way sunlight streamed through its branches, and the carpet of bluebells below.

“I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines” - Henry David Thoreau

Shoot with Intention

Digital photography has brought speed and abundance—but also a tendency toward the “shotgun” approach: take many images, hope for a few good ones.

Instead, begin with mindfulness. Ground yourself. Walk slowly. Let your subjects reveal themselves. Ask: What am I trying to express? Is it a mood? A story? A particular emotion?

On a trip to Turkey, I took thousands of images with my first digital camera—yet very few truly spoke to me. I had focused on volume, not vision.

Intentional photography means making deliberate choices—framing, timing, light—to support the story you want to tell. Use compositional tools like leading lines, negative space, or the rule of thirds not as rigid rules, but as guides to clarity.

Ansel Adams often planned for hours—or even days—for a single frame. His photographs endure because of that patient intentionality.

In a time when our attention is pulled in a hundred directions, picking up a camera can become more than a creative act—it can be a practice in awareness.

Photography gives us permission to pause, to notice the overlooked, and to embrace imperfection. It’s not about chasing the perfect image, but about being fully present for the one unfolding in front of you.

The next time you go out to photograph, try leaving behind the pressure to produce. Walk slowly. Breathe deeply. Listen. And when something catches your eye, let that be enough.

After all, the most powerful photographs often come not from what we see—but from how we see.