I didn’t realise this account was still here.
Time has a way of doing that. It moves forward without asking, while places tend to stay put. When I last wrote here, life looked different. Not better or worse. Just different. Since then, years have passed quietly. Work was done. Seasons came and left. I kept going, even when I wasn’t writing it down.
This place never asked for updates.
The light still returns after long darkness. The mountains hold their shape. The sea keeps its rhythm. Animals arrive when they are meant to, and leave when they must. Nothing here waits for permission.
Since then, I’ve had children.
New hands learning the same ground.
Another generation stepping into the same light.
Generations come and go.
The land remains.
It holds all of us for a while.
I’ve watched northern lights stretch across winter skies without thinking to share them. I’ve seen new life appear in places that look empty at first glance. Nests built low to the ground. Eggs warmed by patience rather than urgency. Lambs, newly born, unsteady on spring ground.
Life doesn’t stop because you stop documenting it.
There were years when words felt unnecessary. The days were physical. Practical. Grounded in routine. Fixing what needed fixing. Being present where it mattered. Carrying things that don’t show up in photographs.
But presence leaves traces.
You see it in repetition. In familiarity. In views that no longer surprise you, but still hold you in place. Not because they are dramatic, but because they are yours.
I never left this place.
I just spoke less about it.
Looking back at these images, I don’t see moments. I see continuity. A thread through different years, different lives, the same ground beneath our feet.
Life went on.
I went with it.
I’m still here.
Benni
