First Apples

August 30, 2025 by Donna Hopkins

*Apple Nestled in Freshly Cut Grass | Grelen Orchard | Somerset, Virginia | August 2025*

*Greenhouse Ferns | The Market at Grelen | Somerset, Virginia | August 2025*

In the greenhouse, I take pictures of the garden essentials. The soil, the clippers, the pots. It’s hot inside; perspiration slides down my back as I try to hold the camera steadily. There is a slight breeze from an indoor fan. In the background, I hear two ladies talking to my husband and about how much they love this place. I love it, too. I make a note to sign up for a holiday wreath making class at this nursery.

*Pruning Shears | Grelen Nursery | Somerset, Virginia | August 2025*

I have walked miles in orchards and tried many different approaches to taking pictures of apples and peaches. All with mixed results. The best pictures depend on a certain degree of happenstance where the light is gorgeous and the fruit is lush. Where the orchard is quiet and the grass is soft. Where someone has left behind a ladder or maybe a basket. Where the fallen fruit has begun to decay. Where abundance spreads like a canopy in the sky above and a blanket on the earth below.

*Waves of Color | The Market at Grelen | Somerset, Virginia | August 2025*

*Cameo Apples | Grelen Orchard | Somerset, Virginia | August 2025*

*Stacks of Terra Cotta | The Market at Grelen | Somerset, Virginia | August 2025*

*Potting Mix | Grelen Nursery | Somerset, Virginia | August 2025*

Shoreline

August 29, 2025 by Donna Hopkins

Here’s what I love most about taking pictures. It gives me a reason to get up and get out into the world. It gives meaning to my life. It may not be a grand purpose in the scheme of things, but I treat my photography practice with reverence. I know the work I have done to care for others is important and necessary, but the making of these pictures is my passion. It is my life’s work. And I can’t imagine not doing it. But to keep going, sometimes I need to rest. I have stepped away gracefully. I have stepped away unknowingly. I have stepped away sadly. And I have separated from the work I love angrily, fearfully, and fretfully, too. I’ve worked hard to not shame myself for these detours and to wait patiently for the next turnaround.

In Doing The Small Things With Love

August 28, 2025 by Donna Hopkins

*Wakefield, Virginia | Sammy, The Fishing Dog | August 2025*

*Westmoreland State Park | Fossil Beach | August 2025*

*Potomac Beach | Wakefield, Virginia | August 2025*

A few lines from a favorite poem, The Forgotten Corners by Jeff Foster.

Enlightenment isn’t an escape.
It’s seeing, really seeing,
what’s right in front of you.
It’s staying.
Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Even when it’s brutally mundane.
There’s holiness in every breath.
In doing the small things with love.
In the life you already have.

*Westmoreland State Park | Looking for Shark’s Teeth | August 2025*

I took all of these photographs with my Pentax 645, using up a roll of Kodak Portra 400 film. They are not my best work. And that’s okay. They are the practice that encourages those long exhales in a messy life.

Call Forwarding

August 26, 2025 by Donna Hopkins

*Phone Sign | Charlottesville, Virginia | August 2025*

I genuinely enjoy nice long phone calls with my best friends and close family. I grew up witnessing my mom and her sister talk to each other on the phone every evening, even though they worked together and always saw each other in-person, too. They often talked about nothing much at all. Their phone calls were short and sweet conversations about what they were making for dinner, or a favorite television show, or how their kids were driving them to distraction in one way or another. They were each others best friends. I read somewhere that a best friend isn’t necessarily someone you call when life falls apart (though those friends are certainly important). A best friend is the one who is there for those tough times, but just as interested and willing to help when you call asking for a recipe or to gripe about how your husband asked, “What’s for dinner?” for the thousandth time.

I understand that texting is, for many, more convenient and a preferred method of keeping in touch. But for me, texting feels like writing. I still text with most of the conventions of writing. Greetings and salutations. Sentences with capital letters and punctuation. Paragraphs and organized thoughts. I typically rely on 3 or 4 emoji’s as extras: a heart, some version of a smiley face, clapping hands, maybe a thumb’s up or a check mark. Occasionally, my fancy phone suggests an appropriate emoji (I see you, birthday cake) and I’ll go for it. But mostly, if I can’t express what I need to say with a simple heart, then it’s time for an actual conversation. Talking is so much easier for me. I’ve often been told that I write quite a bit differently than I speak. Maybe this is true for you, too? When I write, I am interested in clearly conveying my point or theme. I may attempt some form of creative writing, but in general my goal is to cover the topic. But when I talk, I want to tell the whole story. With my whole self. The small break in my voice when I am close to tears. The way I can channel my mother’s voice and expressions. The comforting pauses as I wait for you to tell me about your life, too. The curse words that I am still too conditioned to view as “bad words” to put into print, but love to speak out loud, now that I do not believe the words are bad and that using them does not, in fact, make me bad. Oh, shit!

My sons call me several times each week. And my sisters, too. And a few dear friends. My claim to fame, if I have one, is that I always pick up the phone for people I love. And I am thrilled to hear from them. Every. Single. Time.