I wonder if the white star magnolia ever asks itself if it is right-sized, or if its flower, the one with delicate petal-like tepals, is the correct shade of alabaster white. I wonder if it asks itself if it has enough flowers blooming on its tree or if its fragrance is the right type of sweet or musky. I wonder if the osprey dive bombs into the cove, catches a fish, then thinks, as he bats his enormous wings onto the beach, “That thing is too small, you idiot.” I wonder if

that when you are filled with doubt, it means that you are on the verge of growth? I can’t quite remember where I heard this, but as I pull out my hair on this third novel, I am choosing to believe it. I like the idea that doubt is just the door to something new, bigger, more expansive. It makes the feeling—something a bit jittery, like we are on the verge of free fall—more doable somehow. Doubt applies to so much of our lives. Doesn’t it? Will I ever publish this thing? Will

The tundra swans migrate from Alaska to the Chesapeake Bay every year. And every year, I shoot hundreds of shots trying to catch their majesty, the way they move their necks, the ivory of their feathers. The span of their wings. They are elusive creatures when it comes to humans. Which is why I chase them with my lens. Seems catching a sunset with the swans, the slight pink of the waves, their cooing and playfulness with other birds, is a gift from the great beyond. Truly a c