Chasing Light

We rarely realise which moments will matter the most while we’re living them until years after, when you stumble upon an old photograph that stops you in your tracks and transports you back to a time, event or place that you didn’t realise would be so important to you later in life.

It might be a faded photo of you on a beach with your grandparents. Your grandad’s trousers are rolled up above his ankles, your nan is smiling. She knew there would be a time when you’d stop going to the beach with them so this moment felt more important to her that day than it did to you. They look impossibly young, younger than you feel today. You remember the laughter, the ice creams, and the stash of 2p coins they’d been saving for the trip to the pier. They’re both gone now, but they remain in the photograph.

Maybe it’s the photo of you and your best friend from down the road. You’re both stood beside the BMX bikes that offered you both your first ever taste of freedom. He’s wearing a baggy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and you’re wearing some garish neon Bermuda shorts. You swore you’d stay in touch when your parents had to relocate. You did for a while but as you grew, life got in the way. People drift and forget each other. Years pass in a flash, but this image makes it feel like the bike ride with your pal was only yesterday.

It could be a photo from that long backpacking adventure half-way around the globe; arms slung around strangers who became family overnight, cheap drinks, blurred smiles, stories still told years later like modern folklore - only now there are fewer people left to tell them to. You didn’t really appreciate living in the moment back then, but those nights were fleeting. Responsibility eventually kicked in. And upon seeing the photo, so does the nostalgia.

Photographs can remind us that time moves quickly and relentlessly forward, whether we’re paying attention or not. And that one day, things we often take for granted easily become things we ache to revisit.

But sometimes you’re in a moment, living it, knowing that you’ll remember this day for the rest of life. This, I think, is what life is all about; trying to live in ways or opening yourself up to experiences that provide opportunities to create lasting positive memories. And if you’re really lucky, you may just happen to be able to capture an image that will help you relive that moment in years to come and be reminded of how good it felt to truly feel alive.

I could post my top photos taken this year, but instead this post is just about one single photo I took. My personal ‘Photo of the Year’ if you like. It’s my photo of Mt. Fuji, taken from the window of a speeding Shinkansen back in April. A photo I’d hoped to capture but didn’t expect to. A photo taken at the end of a near-perfect day. Taken at a moment, for reasons I’ll never be able to describe with ease, that sent a rush of excited adrenaline through me. It isn’t an artistic masterpiece, nor is it technically spectacular. But, similar to those old, long forgotten photos of happy past times, looking at it will always remind me of a moment where I felt good. And in this particular moment, I felt a jolt of rare, pure euphoria light up my soul and it made me feel happy  and lucky to be alive.

Having walked an average 40,000 steps a day in Tokyo since I’d flown over from London, I was looking forward to a slightly calmer visit to Kyoto a week later. I spent a couple of nights in Osaka first, and travelled there on the bullet train with the hope of seeing Mt. Fuji en-route. Much to my disappointment, like many who hope to get sight of the iconic volcano while visiting Japan, it was hidden by thick cloud. Never mind - a good excuse to make a return trip another time (as if I needed more excuses).

I spent the next several days enjoying the stillness and tranquility of Kyoto’s temples and zen gardens. A true highlight of my first visit to Japan. I was in my element. Despite being far from the UK, in a country where I only knew a fraction of the language, I felt strangely at home and for the first time in a long time, fully relaxed (although my tired feet would argue otherwise).

I was sad to leave Kyoto, but I had more of Tokyo to explore and a Star Wars convention to attend (nerd alert!). I’d pre-booked my return tickets and wasn’t due to travel until late evening (pre-booking means you can secure limited baggage storage without getting fined). I covered a lot of ground on that last day, ticking off a lot more than I’d imagined yet somehow still feeling incredibly relaxed. I even shared a brief moment with a friendly heron that decided to land right next to me as I enjoyed a beer along the river. I won’t bore you with all the details as to why, but like I said before, it was a very special day overall.

Feeling content, it was late afternoon when I realised the sky was still clear. What if I managed to book an earlier ticket back to Tokyo? Would I get a glimpse of Mt. Fuji? It was a long distance away, maybe it was cloudy there again? I checked the time then opened the map on my phone. I traced the Shinkansen line from Kyoto Station all the way to where I expected the best view of Mt. Fuji to be from the window on the left hand side of the carriage. I quickly looked to see when the sun was due to set, what the earlier train times were and then estimated what time I might reach the spot on the map I’d stuck a pin on. My chances were slim, but I figured if the sky was clear by the volcano, I’d make it in time and get a good view. I had nothing to lose apart from a wasted train ticket, so I rushed back to the hotel to grab my bags and headed to the station.

As luck would have it, there were still seats available with included baggage storage and a left-side window seat. I reclined my chair, ordered a coffee and refreshed my face with the provided hot towel. I put on my headphones and smiled to myself as I looked at some of the photos I’d taken over the past few days. About 90 minutes into the journey, the sun was now worryingly low and based on my amateur calculations, there was still a little way to go before we’d speed past the volcano. Maths was never my strong point.

The sky was still clear, not a cloud in sight along the route, but the sun was setting and the sky was getting darker. A little disappointed that I’d miscalculated things by about 30 minutes, and gently kicking myself for not hatching a plan a little earlier in the day, I accepted that my luck had run its course. I put on my headphones and started playing Bloom, the introspective album by Ben Bohmer, and settled in for the rest of the journey.

A few songs in and not expecting to see anything, I glanced out of the window. The sun had gone down, but the clear sky was on its final stage of evening glow. I figured there was still some distance to go before the train line bent to the right slightly, the spot I had in mind. But just as I was about to turn my head back, I noticed something in the distance as the train started to turn. And there it was. The snow-tipped Mt. Fuji in the distance. A grand spectacle. Magnificent in its size, but graceful. Much like a full moon. As the direction of the train favoured my view, I quickly took out my camera. Muscle memory kicked in. I adjusted the shutter speed and ISO, took the shot and lowered my camera. As I did, Beautiful (feat. Malou) pulsed through my headphones. The sheer surprise of how beautiful the view was, a view I’d dreamed of seeing and miraculously managed to pull off right at the last possible moment of the evening, along with the atmospheric song playing at the same time, filled me with adrenaline that I find extremely difficult to describe. The perfect day in Kyoto, now this. It felt cinematic.

As Mt. Fuji started to disappear from view, something took hold of me. It was as if I’d seen something nobody had seen before and I’d never see it again - not in the way I’d seen it, and not with as much last minute effort. It was also as though I’d felt something so strong, so rapturous, that it would be unlikely that I’d ever experience a feeling like that again. I put the palm of my hand against the window as some sort of weird goodbye. And as the sound of Evermore (feat. Enfant Savage) started to play, I felt very emotional.

With Mt. Fuji now behind me and Tokyo not far ahead, I looked at the photo on my camera and I knew that this image would stick with me forever. I knew that from this point on, even if I couldn’t ever replicate the way I felt, even if I didn’t ever take another photograph that gave me the same personal satisfaction, that I would at least try. That, to me, is worth living for.

As photographers, amateurs, professionals or hobbyists (me), I think that’s the important thing about taking photographs. We shouldn’t take them to prove we were somewhere or did something, but to remind ourselves that we felt something. That we lived fully. That we captured beauty in whatever shape or form it shows itself to us. Life is unbearably short. People we love won’t always be there. Places change. We change. But if you’re lucky enough to experience a moment that fills you with wonder, peace or joy, hold onto it. Remember it. Capture it if you can. Those moments may fade but they don’t disappear. They become part of who we are - small, fragile miracles etched into us like light on film. Proof that even as everything else moves on, something beautiful once stopped us in our tracks, waiting patiently for the day we need to remember it again.