I have carried a camera, off and on, for most of my life. For a long time, photography was simply something I enjoyed—a way to remember the places I'd been and the things I'd seen.

Then one evening in Jacksonville, Florida, I set up my camera across the St. Johns River and photographed the downtown skyline. The finished panorama was made from nine individual photographs stitched together into a single image. When I saw the result, I realized I had done something different. I hadn't simply recorded what was in front of me. I had made a photograph that showed the scene the way I saw it.

That distinction has stayed with me.

I'm not particularly interested in photographing everything. I'm drawn to quiet places, unusual details, old buildings, nature, and those small moments that are easy to walk past without noticing. Sometimes it's the sweep of a landscape. Sometimes it's an old rocking chair, a weathered wall, a bird sitting exactly where the light finds it, or something wonderfully odd that simply makes me stop and smile.

Photography has also taught me to slow down and pay attention. To look at the light. To notice what's happening around the edges. And occasionally, to turn around and see what everyone else has walked past.

Through My Zoom is a collection of those moments.

Some are beautiful. Some are quiet. Some are strange. Some have stories attached to them that mean far more to me than the photograph alone could ever explain.

I've learned that the photographs I care about most aren't necessarily the ones I went looking for. They're the ones that find me.

And when that happens, I raise the camera.

“The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.” — Dorothea Lange