Roots by the River

A Quiet Lesson in Seeing

Spring in the Texas Hill Country is a season many people speak of with a kind of reverence. The bluebonnets usually rise in soft oceans of color, drifting across the hills like small strokes of sky laid upon the ground. I had traveled there hoping to photograph this beauty, to reconnect with the spark that sometimes gets dulled by routine or self-doubt.

But when I arrived, the land told a different story.
The year had been hard. Rain had been scarce.
The flowers stood only a few inches tall, little clusters of color holding on in dry soil.

I remember standing there with my camera, feeling a quiet disappointment. Not frustration, not angry, just that gentle ache that comes when expectations fall short. Perhaps you’ve felt that too. You work toward something, you hope for a certain outcome, and then you arrive… only to find that the moment isn’t what you imagined.

It’s in these moments that nature begins her teaching.

A Journey Through Drought and Haze

My travels took me from Waco to Canyon Lake.
In Waco, I walked through the quiet grounds where ancient mammoths once stood, a reminder that this world has seen ages of change, loss, renewal. At Waco, a brush fire broke out one afternoon. I watched smoke rise, thin at first, then thicker, carried by winds that seemed restless. It was a small echo of the wildfires burning across the West that season.

A few days later, I moved on to Canyon Lake. The water was clear and peaceful, but even there, the dryness of the land made itself known. At my campsite, a small scorpion crawled from the grass, reminding me once again that every environment carries its own guardians and dangers.

Each evening, I photographed the sunsets. Smoke from distant fires added a soft haze to the sky, turning the colors delicate and muted. The images were interesting, but I still felt something was missing.

That night, after reviewing the photos, I sat quietly and admitted to myself what I had been feeling for a while. My photography was fine. But it didn’t speak to me. It didn’t stir the deeper places of my heart the way it once had.

So, I whispered a small prayer:
“Lord, I don’t know what I’m looking for anymore… but I know I’m missing it.”

Sometimes we ask without knowing what we need.
Sometimes we search without knowing where to go next.

The Hidden Path

The next morning, I drove to Guadalupe River State Park, west of where I was staying. The river was low, the drought pulling it inward until it ran narrow and quiet. Many hikers and explorers have made a well-worn path over the years. I followed it slowly, not rushing, just listening to the soft whisper of water slipping over rocks.

There is something healing about walking near a river, even a tired one. Its rhythm becomes your rhythm. Its stillness becomes your stillness.

After a while, a small side trail appeared on my right. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a thin ribbon of earth curving gently through the brush. Yet something in me awakened, a quiet sense of this is your path today.

So, I followed it.

The trail was short, but what I found at the end felt like stepping into a quiet revelation. A huge tree leaned out over the riverbank, its trunk arching as if reaching toward the water, offering shade, companionship, maybe even protection.

But the roots…
The roots were the true sight.

The Roots That Hold Us

They stretched out across the exposed bank in great sweeping lines, worn smooth from years of floods and seasons of change, yet undeniably strong. They twisted and braided together like ancient fingers, gripping the earth with patient determination.

I walked around to the far side of the tree, and the full view opened before me. The roots fanned out in every direction, holding the tree steady against everything the river had ever thrown at it, storms, droughts, rising waters, falling waters, time itself.

And there, in the quiet morning light, I felt something settle inside me.

These roots were not hidden.
They were not delicate.

But they carried a truth I needed to remember:
Strength is not always in what grows upward.
Sometimes it is in what holds quietly below.

I realized I had been searching for the obvious beauty, that dramatic moment, the perfect photograph. But life was offering me roots, a strength, the quiet resilience that grows beneath every visible thing.

I lifted my camera and made several images, letting its story unfold in the viewfinder. But the most important image was the one that landed in my heart.

My prayer had been answered, not with a burst of color, but with a reminder of what truly sustains us.

A Lesson to Carry Forward

As you move through your own life, your creative work, your relationships, your struggles, you may find moments where things feel uninspired, or uncertain. You may look at your efforts and think, “This is fine… but something is missing.”

When that happens, think of the tree by the river.
Think of its roots holding on through every season.
Think of the quiet trail that led to the perspective you didn’t know you needed.

And let this truth rest with you:

When beauty seems absent, look for what is holding you steady.
When inspiration feels distant, step off the main path.
When you don’t know what you’re searching for, be open to small nudges.

You might not find the blossom you expected,
but you may discover the roots you were meant to see.