Have you ever noticed how, when you’re pouring liquid into a glass container, the pitch changes as the glass gets fuller?
It’s subtle but distinct—a higher, thinner note that rises in tone as the liquid nears the top. That sound, for me, is more than a curious detail of physics. It’s a signal. An instinct. An indicator.
Time to stop pouring.
I heard that sound today—around 4:00 p.m. Not with my ears, but somewhere in my head. In my chest. That rising tone of internal fullness. The kind that doesn’t just suggest you’re topped off, but that you’re spilling over.
I was full.
Full of defending the record of Pope Francis.
Full of defending my atheism.
Full of defending my version of democracy. And immigration. And equality. And what truth even means anymore.
Full of not defending Donald Trump
I was full of talking, explaining, justifying, and arguing.
Full of comment threads.
Full of podcasts and pundits.
Full of being right.
And when I get full like that, there’s only one thing left to do:
I grab my camera, hop on my bike, and go get empty.
Now let me say this upfront: emptying, in my world, is not the same as emptiness. I’m not riding toward a void or a vacuum. I’m not numbing out or disappearing. No, emptying—my kind of emptying—is just about replacing what’s inside with something else. Something quieter. Something more nourishing.
When I say I needed to empty myself, I mean I needed to swap out the noise for stillness. The heat for light. The battle for beauty.
I don’t always know where I’m going when I do this. But I’ve been doing it long enough to trust the process. The road knows. The light knows. The camera knows. All I have to do is listen. And follow.
This afternoon, I rode without a map. No destination in mind. I just let the soft, low ache in my chest point me in the right direction. I was desperate to pour out all the gunk that had settled there—conversations I didn’t ask for, tensions I didn’t create, arguments I didn’t win. And I did what I always do when I’m searching for space again: I started seeing.
This is what emptying looked like to me, today.
And just like that, the noise started to loosen its grip. I let it go, frame by frame. Focus by focus. Tap by tap. With every photo, I wasn’t just capturing—I was clearing. Making room.
I don’t shoot to prove a point. I shoot to remember who I am.
I don’t shoot to win the day. I shoot to save it.
Because every time I lift that iPhone to my eye (or rather, extend it out into the world), I’m reminded that life is bigger than any one ideology. Bigger than any one leader. Bigger than my rage or my reason.
Photography, for me, is a daily act of spiritual maintenance. A practice. A path.
And sometimes, like today, it’s also a purge.
By the time the sun started dipping low and the air turned that delicious blue of early evening, I felt it. That spaciousness. That click. The feeling of having just enough room inside again to breathe, to laugh, to be. Not jammed up with everyone else’s noise. Just me, the bike, the road, the light, and the stories unfolding around me.
I came back lighter. Not because the world had changed. But because I had. I had traded noise for nuance. Conflict for color. I had swapped the endless tug-of-war of opinion for the quiet pull of presence.
So the next time you feel full—like really full—I hope you recognize it. That pitch in your head rising. That tension in your chest. That moment where even one more drop would make you spill.
Click.
Jack.
