We spent a week in Ruciane-Nida, a place where stillness itself seemed alive. From the apartment balcony, the wide expanse of Jezioro Nidzkie unfolded before us, changing with every shift of light. Morning reflections shimmered in gold, evenings softened into shadow. With my camera always at hand, I tried to capture these fleeting moods, though I often wondered—does the lens preserve them, or is it merely a reminder of moments the heart has already stored?
Throughout the week, my gear became a companion as much as Dorota and Monty. The DJI Pocket 2 was perfect for the intimate scenes: forest paths dappled with sunlight, Monty peering out of his “Monty Truck,” ears twitching at whispers only he seemed to hear. In contrast, the DJI Mini 3 Pro drone lifted me above it all, offering a perspective that felt almost otherworldly. From the air, the forest looked endless, the lake stretched into forever, and the little roads we cycled to Krzyże appeared like delicate threads tying everything together.
From above, even the simplest scenes became layered with meaning. The symmetry of masts, the textured greens of the trees, the play of light on water—they revealed themselves like brushstrokes on a canvas I hadn’t realised I was standing inside. Looking at the screen, I found myself asking: Do we only ever see part of the story when our feet remain on the ground? How much of life requires us to rise above in order to understand its shape?
Not every day was an adventure, of course. One was given entirely to the outdoor pool at the apartment. Sunlight bounced off the surface, laughter echoed, and for once, the cameras rested at my side. Yet even in leisure, I found myself framing pictures in my mind—was it habit, or the quiet insistence of a photographer’s eye never truly resting?
Evenings brought us back to the water’s edge. Camera in hand, I chased the last light as the lake mirrored the sky. Shadows deepened, and silence wrapped around us, broken only by wings above or hidden life in the trees. Sometimes I hesitated before pressing the shutter. Could an image ever capture the questions that hung in the air? Do lakes remember? Do forests keep secrets? Or is it we who carry them away when we leave?
For me, this journey wasn’t only about travel. It was about seeing through glass, through technology, through memory. And perhaps, most importantly, about questioning what it means to truly capture a place.
Have you ever felt that a photograph tells you as much about yourself as it does about the world in front of the lens?
