Spring Woods

I stood on the edge of a small lake in northern Indiana to make this picture,
      pointing my camera with its telephoto lens toward the opposite shore.
I used this image in a presentation I created about the nature of grief.
There were no words—just the music of “Fratres”
      by the Estonian composer, Arvo Pärt,
            and photography of the unfolding seasons.
In one place the score turns quietly yet unmistakably hopeful.
Spring photography was called for, so I placed this image there.
But what image would precede it?
Searching through my files, I came across a forgotten photograph,
      taken years prior.
It’s the same scene, only there are no leaves on the trees at all.
Here’s the kicker: when I placed the barren image in one projector,
      and the spring green image in a second projector,
            and slowly dissolved from the first image to the second,
                  they matched exactly.
Exactly!
Without remembering, I had composed the same photograph,
      standing in the same place,
            with the very same setting on my telephoto lens, years apart.
The resulting effect on the screen was for that woods to slowly come alive
      with spring green and pastel blossoms and clear hope.
It’s quite remarkable to watch that serendipity unfold, completely unplanned.
Of course, maybe it was planned—
      it’s just that it wasn’t I who did the planning.