Years ago, in a distant yet oh-so-vivid past, I worked as a tour guide at a cave. During my two-summer tenure (thank you very much), I had the unique privilege of going spelunking. This excursion differed from the walking tour I gave visitors as it entailed traversing narrow passages off-limits to the public. These passages led to secret chambers that many of my seasoned colleagues alluded to as we stood eating slivers of fudge in the gift shop, flashlights sticking out of our hoodie pockets. (In addition to fudge, we also sold geodes.) I was mildly unnerved by these murmurings—what lurked in those crevices?!—but also intrigued. So one day after hours, I donned a headlamp and clothes that I didn’t mind getting dirty, and down the steps we went.
I wasn’t a geology buff like many of my fellow guides. Instead, I was drawn to the cave by the sheer novelty factor. Also, the dim, strangely intimate, and hushed setting appealed to the then-thespian and later darkroom enthusiast in me.1 Though I had no prescience of it at the time, the making was apparent: my favorite part of the tour was when I got to turn off all the lights. For a solid minute, I would expose visitors to the wonder of Total Darkness. I’d explain how, in true pitch black, a person’s eyesight will never adjust, no matter how long they wait. Like a proper guide, I'd let this moment sink in and linger, sometimes too long, before joking that I'd see everyone later. (“You guys remember the way out, right?”) This was often the point in the tour where someone needed to leave, understandably, and I had an intercom stationed nearby for that very purpose.
I was a good guide. I never left anyone behind, even when they asked dumb questions or tried to touch the stalactites or disturb the bats. I held kids’ hands if they were scared. If someone, god forbid, opened a granola bar and loudly rustled the wrapper before tossing it on the ground, I kept my cool and calmly retrieved it. I waited for the slowpokes and stragglers. Answered every question with as much scientific knowledge as I’d retained.
The only thing I ever wittingly lied about was when someone would point and ask, “Where’s that hole go?” and I would respond, “Nowhere,” when, in fact, it led somewhere—I just didn’t know where.
Until I went spelunking.
The thing about claustrophobia, and most phobias, is that you don’t develop it until the situation arises. It’s an incredible disadvantage. Never before, in any circumstance, had I considered myself claustrophobic until I felt rock pressed against both my chest and back as I army-crawled like an ant through the earth—100 feet underground. (In retrospect, I might have anticipated this better.) As my headlamp illuminated the disappearing soles of the sneakers of the intrepid explorer in front of me, I became wildly claustrophobic. Oh, this is bad, I thought. This is very bad. I need to get out of here. NOW!!
Within a few minutes of semi-conscious writhing through a terrain I swear no human being should ever set foot in, even briefly, we arrived at a domed cavity. All six or seven of us crowded into a room roughly the size of a small tent—a holding space before continuing our journey. I was not, as expected, dead, though the possibility remained. I hunched over, shaking and breathless. My colleagues appeared unfazed.
“If anyone needs to leave,” our lead guide informed us, “now is the time.”
I woefully remembered how the expedition was set to spit us out somewhere in the woods behind the gift shop. It would be another forty-five minutes, at least, before we surfaced.
“I-I will leave,” I stammered, barely lucid. I hoped I could make it out and didn't faint and need to be rescued.
“Me too.”
A guy I’d always pegged as being cool and collected, tough even, had also opted out. I felt marginal relief; I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t hack it.
“Alright, then. You two—follow me.”
The film reel featuring our exit is muzzy. It plays in my memory like I’m a mole with limited eyesight, wriggling through the dirt toward a distant light. In my vague recollection, we took a different route than the way we came, ending up in The Ballroom. This spacious chamber, named after parties that early explorers used to throw in the cave (it also served as a tornado and bomb shelter), was part of the regular tour. I swear, I’d never been so happy to have entered that room. Maybe any room. Ever. To this day.
Our guide crawled back into the crevice from whence we came while my brave co-worker and I left the cave our usual way—by walking. Jelly-legged, we trailed the long incline and wooden steps until we reached glorious daylight. Then we sat outside on the picnic tables next to the parking lot, nursed our frayed nerves, and waited for the others to emerge from the woods, which darkened like a witch's lair.
I haven’t visited the cave in many years, though I think about it often. In particular, I think about that day I went spelunking and how ridiculous and frightened I felt to find myself in a situation where I had such limited control over my surroundings and faculties. In a way, it was good: I challenged myself to go out of my comfort zone and, subsequently, permitted myself to abandon that endeavor when it became too much for me. My choice to leave also, I like to think, enabled someone else to do the same. At the time, it gave me increased respect for the folks who left the regular tour. I understood all of us better after that day.
So, why the cave story? Where are we going here, Al?
Well, as your guide, if you follow me this way…
Sometimes, being online feels like exploring a vast, intricate cave. In certain pockets, there is breathing room and spaciousness; in others, the walls feel increasingly narrow, and the air is stagnant and thin. Not to mention feeling like you’re being watched by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pairs of red beady eyes.
Lately, I’ve been feeling somewhat confined by select online spaces and the pressures they create to engage. Even Substack, the platform I use to write Reflecting Light, isn't faultless. Take a gander at this nudge I got from them the other day:
THE GALL! (Lol)
First of all, Substack—relax. The draft will be finished when it’s finished. Right now, I’m merely enjoying stringing words together into something I hope (fingers crossed) is coherent. Let me revel in this frustrating process I love so dearly.
Second, maybe fast growth is overrated. I had an amaryllis once that grew shockingly fast and beautiful, only to become too heavy and snap off its head. Maybe, at this stage in my life, I’m more focused on slow growth. Like a tree. Perhaps a cedar or Japanese maple.
In this way, I’m not cut out for digital life with its ceaseless churning and expectation to keep up. I mean, there’s a reason I gravitated to analog photography. Like me, it’s decidedly anti-hustle. Meditative. A little finicky! Yet, somehow, I’m still here.
I sometimes question the purpose and necessity of writing this newsletter (blog?) and sharing my “ideas with the world.” I fear it is yet another obligation for you, the reader, more filler and noise to contend with. Why add to the din?
It seems I can't help it. For inexplicable reasons, I keep putting my fingers to the keyboard and sending stray missives across the void. Even when it’s dim and far away, there’s a twinkle within this space I’m drawn toward. All I can do is follow that tiny, flickering light for as long as it exists before waning and dissolving into black.
That being said, you always have the choice to opt-out. I mean this. If anything about Reflecting Light becomes too much (or little) or a drain even subtly on your life or inbox, please don’t feel you have to keep up with it. It’s okay to take a break or let it fade.
Over the years, I've needed to disengage from various online platforms and discourse for the sake of my mental health. I'm going through something similar now. Stuff has, in short, become too much for me. I'm struggling to maintain composure and make space for all the things that give my life meaning or help to regulate it, like exercise and sleep. (Oh, sleep.) As a result, I find myself returning to the splendor of missing out, free from pressure and constraint. Like a sapling, I emerge from the dark earth. It’s bright; I blink. Fresh air fills my lungs. 𓇢𓆸
I made this silver gelatin print a few years ago in a community darkroom. Recently, I was pleased to discover it found a home in the winter 2024 issue of SHOTS Magazine. The theme: Moving Pictures.
This is such a wonderful piece. I remember getting one of those "do you want to finish this draft" emails from Substack once — I dug deep into the settings to turn that off as quickly as I could. Anyway, I feel like I'm in exactly the same place as you right now, as far as everything feeling like too much, not being cut out for the digital world, etc. I feel spread thin, and I really loathe how these (digital) pressures are making me feel day-to-day. Reading your words here has been really helpful, though, so thank you. And as always, your photography is just stunning.
I'm also someone who has always been drawn to slow, to analog, to running in the opposite direction of the tech zeitgeist. But more and more these things are becoming impossible to ignore, and the way we share our art in 2024 is so lopsidedly digital anymore. And, like you, my need to create outweighs my desire for a simpler life of...not creating? I've tried to walk away from music at different times in my life, when things have become too much, but it's always there, calling me back. And I'm glad that it is, but the search for finding a healthy balance between the work itself and the sharing/marketing/promotion of the work is ongoing.
I feel rambly. Sorry. Lots of coffee. Little sleep.
I think there's something so generous about the willingness to guide other humans along the path of a thought-trail. This one was especially interesting to me, as I really love a good cave tour. For a few minutes this morning, I was crawling along that crevice with you, needing to get out of there. Such a good piece of writing, Al. Thank you for it.