The term contemplative photography was first introduced by the Buddhist teacher Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, who taught it not simply as a creative endeavor but as a form of mindfulness practice. At its essence, mindfulness is a state of open, receptive awareness—attending fully to the present moment without judgment, distraction, or the constant pull of thought.

Contemplative photography, then, is less about technical mastery or the camera itself and more about the quality of presence the photographer brings to seeing. It invites us to slow down and connect with the world as it is—not as we think it should be. In a culture that prizes speed, achievement, and spectacle, contemplative photography becomes a quiet, revolutionary act: to pause, to notice, and to honor the ordinary.

Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk, writer, and mystic, once said, “Beauty is simply reality itself.” Merton, who also explored contemplative photography, called this practice “Zen photography,” a nod to the deep resonance between contemplative seeing and Zen’s focus on direct, unfiltered experience. Zen encourages us to meet the present moment with curiosity and compassion—a mindset that naturally aligns with picking up a camera not to capture something, but to receive it.

One of the central influences in this tradition is the Tibetan concept of Miksang, which translates roughly as “good eye” or “pure eye.” Miksang encourages us to look at the world with a kind of childlike freshness, unclouded by habits of mind, expectation, or aesthetic ambition. But it’s not only about what we see—it’s also about how we feel. The practice asks us to pay attention not just with our eyes, but with our hearts.

When I’m holding my camera—whether it’s my Leica M3, M4, M6 or even just my phone—I try to meet the world this way: with openness, stillness, and a willingness to be touched. Some of the images that result may not be “perfect” in the technical sense, but they carry something else—something warm, alive, and real. I know a photograph resonates when I look at it later and feel a quiet stirring in my chest. That’s the kind of beauty I’m drawn to—the kind that doesn’t shout, but whispers.

In the end, contemplative photography isn’t really about photography. It’s about seeing, feeling, and returning to the present. It’s about remembering that the sacred is often found not in the extraordinary, but in the beautifully ordinary moments of our lives.

This way of seeing infuses not only my photography, but also my work as a teacher and guide in mindfulness. Whether I'm leading a retreat, facilitating a coaching session, or walking with someone through a quiet moment of reflection, the heart of the practice is the same: to return to presence, to slow down enough to see—and to help others do the same. Contemplative photography becomes both a metaphor and a method for living with more clarity, compassion, and connection. It reminds us that beauty is always close by, waiting to be noticed—not in some distant place, but right here, in the life we’re already living.