It’s January 2, almost two full days into 2023. I admit I’ve already been asking a lot of this shiny new year. Make it make sense, I plead. And I realize, the more I ask for things to make sense, the less I look at the things themselves, sit with them, sink and float with them.

A friend once asked me how I visualize my life path. What it actually visually looks like in my head. Honestly, I’d never really thought about it before. But I knew. For me, it’s like I’m standing in a sand dune. There’s a path behind me, though it’s already being swept away in the wind. And when I look forward, there’s no path I see. Just an endless dune. And I’m not scared, or worried, or even hopeful. I’m just sort of standing there, looking forward. It’s tranquil.

The last year offered such brilliant, breathtaking, almost unbelievable highs. And it also brought crushing lows. Throughout, it brought little moments, little tiny moments, that filled my lungs with air and my eyes with light when I needed it most. Such slight fragments I nearly missed them. Hands incomprehensibly, hilariously, holding the wheel of a red convertible, heart holding on by a thread. The smell of a darkroom. A chance moment with a punk. A surprise forest. Finding love, losing it, turning up all the furniture looking for it again and then quietly finding it somewhere else, somewhere new. Seeing others love. My words, my photo in print at a publication that means a hell of a lot to me; the photo being printed slightly off. The sand shifting, the wind rising. Crawfish and Dracula in a hotel room. The intoxication of flowers; ferns on a grave. Matching pajamas. Everything is sand; me too.

I've decided to put Anatomy on hiatus for now as I focus on intensive reporting projects that deserve my full attention. Just like in the sand dune of my life, I don't know what the future holds for Anatomy. But what I do know is how much I appreciate you reading these words, looking at my photos and supporting me through one of the most challenging, enlightening and, most likely in the end, transformative years of my life.

As I stand on my sand dune, I look back with appreciation and forward with hope, fear and, most of all, awe. I wave to you over on your dune, too. The sand is the lesson; we are the lesson, too.

With love and light,

A.W.

P.S. For those lovelies on the paid option, I've cancelled your payments. Thank you so, so much for your support; I cannot articulate how much I value you.

Ripples in the ocean at Ponce Inlet. (Mamiya C330, Portra 800)