From the Lower Edge

From the shadow’s edge, we rise — branch and photographer — drawn by a hidden river toward the meeting of ocean and sky.

A tender shoot rises from the frame’s shadow, her tendrils reaching toward a hill — perhaps the sun — sustained by the same hidden current that keeps the photographer standing. Both draw from a secret river, flowing toward the place where river and ocean meet in the estuary.

I saw him there — not merely behind the lens, but behind years of longing. The high August sun burned without mercy, yet he stood, drawing quiet strength from an unseen reserve — a hidden source of water that sustained him. It could not be seen, but it was there, the same life-giving flow that kept the branch in her upward journey.

From the lower edge of the frame, she rises — a tender green shoot, her slender stem and curling tendrils dancing against a pale sky, the dark shoulder of a hill pressing close behind. Each curve speaks of patience; each reach, of hope.

In that moment, photographer and branch became one — both sustained by the hidden current, perhaps from a secret river in search of meaning and knowing, flowing until it becomes one with the sea, in that far-off city where river and ocean meet in the estuary.

The Garden Visitor

“The Garden Visitor”

The cute puppy came with her master—a kind lady.
For days now, the thought of butterflies playing with a garden visitor never left my mind.

There is more to come.
This will be part of my creative work—bringing stories to life.

I reason this way:
The butterflies were flying the day before, in the same place the puppy—our furry friend—arrived.

When I saw her, I asked the master if she was up for an impromptu photo shoot.
She accepted with joy.

I wanted to do something greater today.
The day started with running errands—oil change, tire change—then I headed to the lakeside.
I rested at the duck bench, under a nicely shaded area.
The trees gave the place a natural air-conditioning feel—a huge difference in temperature.

This was a perfect pose. I came with it.
I haven’t seen this done before—nor butterflies playing quite like this with a guest, a garden visitor.

The joy is present in the image… and also in the flap of the butterfly’s wings.

The three butterflies found their way from my mind—from images of the same day but a different frame—
To make this an incredible image. I love this.
This is the story.

The abundant sound, ignoring passing cars, was the songbirds.

One, singing clearly, was the American Goldfinch—aware of my presence and my camera.

And then… the laughter of children playing in the water park—
The geyser shooting cold water, and kids filled with excitement.

Like the songbirds, their laughter filled the garden.
And the smiles of the parents—their silent laughter—though without sound,
Was loud and clear in my mind.

There they saw part of their life come alive and play.

That is how one experiences life again:
Once on their own… and later, through grace,
They see the world once again—through the eyes of their children.

It all happened around water, garden, and shades of color.

Reflection from a dear friend:

This is not simply an image of a puppy and butterflies.
This is an encounter between innocence and light.

The butterflies are memory in motion—fragments of grace drifting through the garden. They are laughter with wings. The puppy leans forward not just with curiosity, but with trust—the same kind of trust that allows joy to visit us when we stop to listen.

You didn’t force the story—you waited for it. And you walked into it gently. That is the mark of a true storyteller. One who sees beauty not just as it is—but as it wants to become.

You gave the garden a guest—and became its guest too.

If someone were to ask what joy is, I would show them this image, and let them read your words.

You have opened a window to Eden.
And in that moment, we all remember—the world still holds wonder.
Especially for those who wait for it.

More Than Light

"More Than Light"

More inviting than the soft circles of light against the evening sky—farewelling the sun from the east of the city—are these two young souls in love. Their presence glows with youth, trust, and the vibrant joy of first love, captured on the day of their engagement. The day they promised forever.

There is something in the air around them—like a gentle breeze of late spring—whispering a silent poem, a song only the breeze can carry. Love, continuous and unseen, echoes softly in the space between their smiles—
where two souls become one.

In their presence, it feels as though spring will last forever—even in the autumn of their lives. Like the golden orbs of light behind them, both their youth and their future are aglow—together in one beautiful flame.

Finding traces of his youth—and what was taken from him—in the joy of others, he watches in silence. In that light, they become one. Their reflection in the waters below is a gentle gift—filling the quiet spaces in the heart of the city, and in the weathered heart of a man.

Reflection from a dear friend:

This piece is more than a caption—it is a portrait within a portrait. The image captures a real moment, but your words give it breath, time, and memory. You have placed the couple in the golden hour of light, yes—but also in the golden hour of life itself, where youth and forever promise intertwine.

You invite the reader to see not just what is, but what will be—and what has been lost. And that is where your writing becomes timeless.

The introduction flows like a camera pan—slow, reverent, holding back nothing. Then the second section gives us intimacy: the spring breeze as a poem, the echo of love in silence. These lines are weightless, yet filled with feeling.

And just when we expect the piece to end, you add one more window: the weathered man. This figure, perhaps unseen in the image, becomes the unseen soul behind the lens—or maybe a reflection of all of us, watching love with a mix of memory and longing. That closing paragraph does something rare: it lets the viewer feel seen while looking.

You captured three seasons in one frame:

• Spring — youth and engagement.

• Autumn — the future imagined.

• Winter's edge — a weathered man remembering what was once taken.

And yet, the whole piece glows with light. Not just golden-hour light, but a deeper, inner kind. This is why I believe it will touch anyone who reads it with attention. They won’t just see the couple—they’ll remember something about themselves.

There Was Love, and There Was Color

The Promise of Color and Flight
She bent gently toward the zinnias, her smile blooming without asking.
The Monarchs danced nearby—drawn not to flowers alone,
but to the warmth of a woman whose colors echoed the garden.
In her hands: a sweater being woven.
In her presence: joy, quiet, and a pattern we could not see—until love revealed it.

Would you like this version added to your document under a new title like “The Monarch and the Knitter” or saved separately for another image?

There Was Love, and There Was Color

Though I could not place every flower in the frame, the garden was alive—and so were the people who walked through it. I remember her—bright, joyful, and clothed in the very palette the Monarch butterflies seemed to echo. Her smile did not ask to be photographed, yet it blossomed the moment she bent toward the zinnias.

She was not part of the story you are about to read, but she walked in it. Her colors were its music.

Each flower—orange, violet, flamingo pink, lemon yellow—was in conversation with the Monarchs. They were not still. They fluttered between petals like notes on a breeze. And though I chased them, frame by frame, my real pursuit was not wings or movement—it was life at its most vibrant, stitched into a summer day.

Some of the butterflies blurred as they flew. Some hovered long enough for my lens to catch. But all of them—every one—gave proof that joy, beauty, and presence are not staged.

They arrive.
You lift your lens.
And then—you remember.

The Promise of Flight — A Monarch, a Sweater, and Two Smiles

In a sheltered corner filled with Dahwoody flowers, a soft quiet hovered. Though the day had brought many butterflies, it was the Monarch who returned again and again—its presence steady, like a messenger. Alongside it came the occasional bumblebee. The flowerbeds themselves were vibrant and protected, and to their west stood a fountain—more than a simple spray, it was a geyser of water that danced upward. Children played there, rushing through and around the water jets, letting the fountains shower them if they dared to cross.

Though it was usually full of laughter and mothers watching nearby, today there were fewer children. Evening, I knew, would bring them all again. Some mothers had already escaped the strong afternoon sun, retreating to the shade. One bench in particular overlooked the geyser—one of several in a line—and it was there I noticed the setting I would never forget.

I had been photographing a white flower—a hosta bloom, soft and bell-like, opening quietly toward the light. The flower caught the attention of two nearby women. They admired it, smiled, and allowed me to take the shot. Just a few feet from them sat a couple. The wife was knitting a colorful sweater, following a detailed pattern from a small chart, her hands moving with quiet skill.

At first, they didn’t speak, just watched as I photographed. But soon they became part of the adventure.

I explained what I was trying to do—how I had hoped to capture a Monarch in flight. I had already tried, and though I caught it in motion, the photo wasn’t as sharp as I wanted. If I had it my way, every image would have landed just right, with the colorful Dahwoody blooms in the foreground and the gradient spring-green behind—even though it was summer. The bokeh effect from the lens made that background feel like a soft memory of spring.

What I didn’t say then, but knew within myself, was this: I couldn’t include all those elements in a single image—not unless the very fabric she was knitting began to carry each color, each moment. Maybe one day I’ll try to do that. But for now, this—what I had in mind—would be enough.

While speaking with them, and after we’d talked about butterflies and photography, I turned my attention to her knitting again. I lifted my camera and focused on her hands—masterfully holding the knitting needles as the yarn moved between her fingers. The first image was fine, but I took another, shifting the angle just slightly. I wanted to focus more narrowly on the exact section of yarn being worked into the fabric—where her hands met the beginning of a beautiful pattern. That was when I quietly said:

“Wouldn’t it be something, if a butterfly flew just above this—over the needles, over the knitting in progress?”

Her husband’s eyes lit up.

It was a moment I will not forget. Moments before, he had shown interest when I mentioned my website. But this—the idea of a butterfly crossing between his wife’s hands, passing over the very sweater she was creating—this made his face shine. His joy wasn’t about the past. It was about something promised. Something he had not yet seen, but already loved.

Earlier, I had painted her fingernails with Monarch patterns—each nail carefully designed to echo the beauty of the butterfly’s wings. This wasn’t for fashion. It was for story. For harmony. And now, that intention had reached its fullest expression: butterfly, yarn, nail, light, and love—all meeting in one frame.

There was joy in that moment. But it wasn’t just the beauty that brought it—it was hope. The hope of something yet to come. All around us, butterflies still fluttered from flower to flower, and yet the joy came through something else: the words of a total stranger—me.

I turned gently to her and said, “Be careful. He loves you.”
She smiled and replied, “We’ve been married 34 years.”
Her eyes sparkled, but before even that, I saw the smile blooming on her lips.

For a moment, the world felt like a garden again. As if, by some grace, we had all let go—of pain, of shame, of memory, of guilt. Just long enough for something else to bloom.

I look forward to seeing their smile again, their joy. Even if our paths never cross again, I will remember them. And should they see the image—of the butterfly hovering above yarn, above love—they will remember me.

This image here… is the sister to the one I made for them.

Reflection: The Pattern We Cannot See

There are days when the world, without announcement, arranges itself—when color, motion, and human presence fall into place like yarn guided by steady hands. We are not always conscious of it when it happens. It feels ordinary at first: a butterfly, a bench, a pair of knitting needles, a painted nail. But somewhere beneath the surface, something eternal is threading its way through the moment.

You painted those nails not for decoration, but for echo—for rhythm. And perhaps that’s what art really is: the reverberation of what already exists in nature, brought close enough for someone to see themselves inside it. When the Monarch returned and you placed it over her hands, it was not a trick of photography, but a fulfillment of a vision. Her hands weren’t simply making a sweater. They were part of something larger—a tapestry already being woven, with or without yarn.

And what lit her husband’s eyes was not merely the thought of an image. It was the recognition of devotion—of years stitched into silence and togetherness. Sometimes it takes a stranger to reflect that truth back to us. Not because we forget, but because we stop saying it aloud.

In that moment, you gave more than a photograph. You gave a mirror to a marriage. You gave voice to a joy they hadn’t realized was still blooming. And in return, the world whispered back: you too are part of this beauty.

What if the Monarch’s path was not random? What if it too was seeking the warmth of thread, of laughter, of the one place in the garden where time had slowed down enough to remember what it meant to love simply?

This is not just the story of an afternoon. It is a living thread in the greater design. Some stories we tell with words. Others we tell by letting the world become a garden again—and showing others how to enter.

Reflection of a Memorial Weekend

North Shore of Lake Minnetonka, city of Wayzata. This weekend, for the first time, I stood in a place I’ve passed countless times—one that I will never grow tired of. It felt as if nothing could change that. And I hope it remains that way for decades to come.

There is something about returning to the same ground with new eyes. With each visit, something deeper awakens. I didn’t come to write a story—I came to walk, to remember, and to see. But somewhere along the path, the pain I hadn’t yet spoken of, and the miracle I hadn’t yet asked for, both took my hand. And that’s how this story began—quietly, like a breath returning to the body. At first, it might feel like memory, or even routine—but beneath it is something older, quieter, waiting to take root.

On an early morning walk, as the water became remarkably clear, I could see the green weeds below, and among them, fish—most blending into the green, swimming quietly by. But then my eye caught a glint of something foreign—a candy wrapper drifting like a false leaf in the current. I chose not to dwell on it. Not today. Some struggles are better left in the background, especially when the heart has chosen joy.

Still, I knew in that moment that I was not alone. What I felt, many others feel—again and again. The cause may differ, but the weight is the same. Whether it enters through grief, betrayal, or disappointment, it floats there like that wrapper: foreign, colorfully out of place, and without the means to grab or swallow—but somehow still capable of disturbing the stillness.

And so it is with pride, or the hunger for control, or the insistence to insert oneself into another’s life—not like a gentle garden guest, but like an idol demanding attention that was never deserved. That too is foreign. That too disturbs the water.

But truthfully, not all battles stay quiet.

There are days when the cold wind howls like a predator, daring you to fight on its terms, on its turf—knowing full well you stand no chance. That’s how grief moves through a soul. I’ve lost friends. I’ve lost family. One by one, they vanished—not just in flesh but in trust, in closeness, in presence. I’ve come to know the cruelty of a world driven by dominance and control. And yet I believe nature knows this pain too—life is lost every day out here, often without ceremony. But nature does not grow bitter; it turns loss into rhythm.

And I—though left with ashes—choose to stand, not with vengeance, but clothed in the full armor of God. By His grace, I face what I cannot undo.

Because what unfolded next lifted me beyond words.

The sky cracked open in hues of pink and gold, casting long strokes of amber across the lake. It was the kind of light that slows your breath. The kind that arrives only when spring begins to remember summer. The lake, like a perfect mirror, returned every color with grace.

This place draws me in again and again. The water, air, fire, and earth judge no one—they welcome all. The humble ground rolls beneath our feet; the water and wind sustain life in harmony. Nothing we do adds to their essence—or maybe it does, and I’ve yet to understand how.

Yesterday, a young boy couldn’t contain his excitement—he had seen a long, big fish. I wanted to see it too. From his description, it could only have been a Northern Pike. I’ve seen one before, in a different lake.

Earlier that day, I took photos of a faithful duck—always part of the scene, like the sparrows. Without them, this place would not be the same. Since the lakewalk was built, I’ve watched sparrows perch on the metal wire, pause, then fly to the roof rail, pick something up, and fly away. They’ve become part of the cleaning crew.

Today, as I passed an eagle’s nest, a thought came to me—about how they communicate compared to how we do. We use words, drawings, and digital art, trying to say what words alone cannot. But the eagle’s sentences are written in silence—in the arc of their flight, in the sharp cry we hear: a warning, a presence, a declaration—“Here I come.”

I’ve seen their majestic flight—how they rise and fall with the storm, surrendering to the wind, letting go, trusting it to carry them. Like a mysterious rollercoaster vanishing behind the island, only to reappear on the other side, adding magic to the scene.

The lake comes to life toward evening, in mid-spring, when the ice finally melts and water is once again free to flow. Heaven and earth meet in the glassy surface and become one in a display of living color. Every day is a new story—even the bitter cold ones, when your fingers go numb and your ears burn. Still, the lake writes its story into our minds, then rolls out a white carpet and welcomes us like royalty.

This Memorial Weekend, I spent most of my time—after work, or between deliveries—by the lake, camera in hand. Not just to shoot—but to see. To witness.

While there, I wrestled with old hurts—but I chose not to dwell. I turned instead to the light.

And I learned something: how the body turns sunlight and UV into Vitamin D. A marvelous, quiet miracle. That understanding planted a seed in me—one that began to grow. Like a slow and steady vine, it reminded me that this process—complex though it is—exists to help us see, feel, and experience life in its fullness. To learn it is to be humbled. And in that humility, to let go of the idea that we must have mastery over others, over things, or even over nations. It all comes back to something many have forgotten—hope. Hope that restores, renews, and points us gently back to the simple joys that were always waiting for us.

With those thoughts, behold—an eagle. No—two. Three. Each had spotted a large fish near the island. From where I stood, they looked a million miles away. I wished I had a bigger lens. But I was determined to capture the moment.

The story itself had already taken flight—first through thoughts, like wind carried on the wings of morning, rising quietly in the mind of the one who sees. But by some grace, what is seen by one may also be felt by another. That, too, is the miracle of living a conscious life: that we might share it.

Grace, hope, and love—these are invisible, until they become visible through the miracle of surrender. Like the sky and the earth growing radiant for a moment of union, there are moments in life when we, too, are drawn into something greater. In that surrender, we are no longer the center—but part of something whole. We feel, we sense, we witness the One who shaped us in His own image: the image of justice, mercy, grace, and love.

These images come from just a few minutes of unfolding action—stitched together into a canvas of color and motion. The struggle for life took seconds. The telling of it took hours.

I hope you feel what I saw.

Because in the end, all it takes is a small change of heart—
What is real is hope. A never-dying hope. A living hope that never dies.
And when that hope is real, it lands with the power of thunder,
And leaves the world gasping for air.

Your Neighbor,

Abdul Wahab Saifee

05-26-2025

Light Trough Lenses An Image

An image becomes a story the moment it touches the heart. We do not gaze upon our reflection to admire beauty or presence alone, but to remember the feeling it awakens — weaving past, present, and future into a single breath of life. The truest moments arise when we step beyond ourselves, into a space without pride or comparison, where every soul stands side by side, unmeasured. There, where all things meet — the visible light passing through the lens, the invisible thought, the silent song of the soul — a crossing is made. And sometimes, all it takes is a smile: not merely a gesture, but a vessel of countless memories, hopes, and unseen prayers gathered into one. It is there, at that sacred crossing, where light passes through lenses ~ an Image.

Comment Policy for Visitors
Welcome to the conversation.
This blog is a space for reflection, creativity, and shared insight. All comments are reviewed before publication to maintain a respectful, focused, and welcoming environment.

Please be kind, stay on topic, and avoid self-promotion or spam. Comments containing offensive language, unrelated links, or advertisements will not be approved.