After six years living in Tokyo, my wife got a job in a Midwestern college town where neither of us knew anybody and to add to the disorientation, our marriage was dissolving too. Unemployed, culture shocked and heartsick, I spent those fall and winter mornings haunting a small forest preserve of native oak and hickory trees near our new home. The intersecting pathways were as cold and barren as I felt inside. All these years later, the thoughts, memory and feelings that surface when I look through the thousands of images that mark the trajectory of those walks, leads me to root them in the specifics of their moment. After all, it's easy to put things in boxes and harder to take them out again. So much so that maybe it's best to leave them be. Things grow and change and what I needed so much then isn't the same now. What do the photographs want? We rarely ask that question, as if the images only ever existed to serve our own needs. I must trust they can live beyond the circumstances of their making. The dog, the pond, the foundation, the boy, the crystalline forest and the house.