And That Is Enough

By Tim Auman

You don’t pick up your camera to capture, shoot, or take.
You pick it up to come home—
to this breath,
this patch of light,
this moment
this flash of perception.

You walk alone,
but not lonely.
Each step is a contemplation,
each pause a gesture of reverence
for the world as it is,
unconditioned,
unfiltered, unexpected.

You know this now:
you are not looking for something.
You are waiting to be found.
By peeling paint,
by tangled weeds,
by a reflection that startles
with its honesty.

You press the shutter
not to say “I got it,”
but to say “I see you.”
And in seeing,
you are seen.

Remember:
every poem is a self-portrait,
revealing every thought, feeling, emotion, and sensation.
And the same is true of your photographs.
The lens always looks both ways.

What you notice
reveals something of what’s stirring in you.
The fog may speak of grief.
The sharpness of a branch against the sky—
a yearning for clarity.
A patch of gold on the sidewalk—
a sudden surge of joy.

This is the beauty of our practice.
You are not trying to make anything happen.
You are allowing it.
You are allowing yourself
to be touched by the ordinary and mundane
until its sacredness is revealed.

Some days you return home
with no images,
but a heart filled with light.
Other days,
you find a photograph that aligns                                                     with your Buddha-nature,
whispered without needing words.

And that is enough.

So, walk gently.
Frame your world with care.
Keep the aperture of your heart wide open.
And trust this:
what you see matters—
because it reveals
not just the world,
but the one who is learning how to see.