My son, Luca, and I often take walks in the cow pastures and hayfields that surround our house. During the pandemic, these walks became more frequent, as social distancing comes naturally among the trees and the tall grass. I was the one pulling his red wagon, but he was the one at the helm. "Pra cá?" he'd suggest in his 2-year-old Portuguese. This way? This way. This way towards a small thing I'd not noticed.
When the camera was with us, Luca watched out for big ouches, steering us clear of fire ant mounds and cow poop as I maneuvered the tripod. And when I walked with the camera alone, I practiced Luca's teachings.
Slow down, look, ask questions.
See and smell;
touch and taste.
Here complexity dissipates into bite-sized pieces.
Looking at these pictures, a friend remarked, "the infinite in a rectangular piece of ground," which reminds me of our fragility and of how small we truly are. In learning to love the small, we learn to love infinitely, a comfort in times of crisis.