Spring has always felt like a return to myself. There’s something about this time of year—the quiet shift of the equinox and the lengthening of light—that I feel deeply.

Last night, walking through Kanaka Creek Regional Park in Maple Ridge, I felt that renewal in motion. Everything seemed to exist in a state of becoming—buds just beginning to open, water moving steadily through the creek, the landscape holding a delicate balance between stillness and change.

As evening settled, a crescent moon appeared. In its earliest phase, the moon carries a sense of beginning—of intention, of something just starting to take shape. It felt quietly aligned with the season itself: not yet full, not yet complete, but full of possibility.

Walking alongside a close friend made the experience even more meaningful. There’s a kind of ease in shared silence—in being present together without needing to fill the space. The beauty of the place seemed to deepen in that quiet companionship, something unspoken but deeply felt.

These are the moments that shape my work long before I ever lift my camera. Spring invites me to slow down, to remain open enough to recognize beauty as it appears—fleeting and unannounced.

And in that space, beneath the early moon and among the first signs of the season, I felt both grounded and renewed—creatively, emotionally, and quietly, within myself.

Part of an ongoing series exploring light, transition, and the emotional landscape of place.