Mt. Fuji

This photo, taken near the base of Mount Fuji, is my one-shot summary of this trimester’s experience.

Why this? Out of all the others I have taken?

It is not the most action-packed or colorful image I took, but it is the one that confronted me. And in some way, answered back. 

A lake, a stick, a girl, a mountain. It is not a photo of me; it is a photo about me. Standing in front of Mount Fuji was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It felt unreal, almost mythic. But more than that, it felt like a mirror. In it, I confronted everything I had ever believed about who I was. My fears, my relevance, my striving. All of it. And yet somehow, standing there with a walking stick in my hand and sky in my lungs, I felt the most strange, humbling peace.

That mountain did not need anything from me. 

The world may not demand anything of me, but to ignore the plight of those I might conceivably save is not wisdom, it is indolence. We all have something we must protect, something we believe in, and we do so in the way that makes the most sense to us.

It just stood, unflinching and unmoved. It was then when I realized that somebody needs who I am becoming. And I have not been able to shake that thought.

It is such a simple sentence. Almost too easy to gloss over. But the more I think about it, the more it holds me still.

Who is that somebody? Maybe it is someone close to me? A stranger I will meet in the future? Maybe it is a student who will one day need the kind of teacher I want to be.

Maybe it is me. 

When this class began, I set myself some modest goals. Learn how to use my camera better. Understand light and form. Did I reach those? In part. I can now look at an image and dissect its intent. I can shoot with patience. But more importantly, I began asking better questions. What do I want my images to say when I am not there to speak for them? 

Mount Fuji became my metaphor. This class sometimes felt like hiking blind. But just like in climbing, there were rests, too. Peaks of understanding. And through it all, I carried what I had: curiosity and the desire to see clearly.

It reminded me that we do not climb, because we are certain of the summit. We climb, because we trust that we are meant to. Even if we cannot see the top, we move forward anyway, not because we are guaranteed to succeed, but because something in us knows we are capable of rising. It is the same reason birds do not put their trust in the branch they perch on, but in their wings to fly. They do not rely on the stability of what they stand on, they rely on what they have cultivated within. That is how this course felt. I was not always sure of the outcome, of the grades, or even of my work. But I kept going, not because I knew where I would end up, but because I was beginning to trust myself. 

I wish I had spoken in the forums. I wish I had reached out to more classmates. It is easy to feel like alone in online learning, and at times, I let that feeling isolate me more than it should have. One thing I will never forget was when we had our onsite photography class. I remember sitting there, listening to our professor speak. I found myself thinking, Wow. This person really cares about this. And not in the generic, obligatory way we assume most teachers do. To teach is one thing. But to teach with intention, you feel that. It was in the way he explained things, but more so in how he reached out to us. Not just to make sure we understood the material, but to make sure we felt seen. Valued. Like we belonged in this space. That matters.

Also, I am not saying this, because it sounds nice. I am saying it, because it is true. Because if I ever find myself in a position to teach, that is the kind of teacher I would want to be, too. 

To be honest, I enrolled in MMS 173, because I needed to. On paper, I am a researcher, a statistics student. I deal with data and in patterns.

But above all, I want to feel the world fully. 

In many ways, photography became another language. Sometimes, I think that is what art is: the space where we finally get to ask the questions that do not have to be answered. Where we can sit with our shadows and still call it light.

Art is how I take care of myself. It is how I hold conversations with the parts of me that data cannot quantify. Because we do learn so much from everything, if we are willing to ask the right questions. I have never really left this world of art. My mother was a beauty queen. My relatives are tied to the music industry. I have always loved it. All of it. Even when I was not “doing it,” I was it. Sometimes I wonder: is it possible that some of us are made of art, even if we do not make it professionally? 

Maybe that is all there is to it. Maybe all we really have is now. Different ways of reaching for truth. Different ways of becoming.

As a statistician, I look at data with the question of "what patterns are here?" As a photographer, I ask "what story is being told?" The correlation is not always obvious, but both require a trust in the process of discovery.

It is about being there. It is about what continues after it all ends. There will always be another summit. What matters is how you choose to face it.

Personal, yet universal. Just like this class turned out to be.