Photography as Meditation: How Weddings, Tennis, and Sewing Teach Me Presence
Meditation is often associated with stillness: sitting quietly, breathing slowly, doing nothing. But some of the most meditative experiences in my life happen while I’m fully engaged in an activity.
Photography is one of them. And, perhaps less obviously, so are tennis and sewing.
These practices may seem unrelated, but they all bring me into the same mental space: deep attention, presence, and a quiet sense of clarity. Not through isolation, but through engagement.
Photography as Mindfulness in Practice
When I photograph, my attention naturally sharpens. My thoughts stop jumping ahead. I’m no longer focused on what comes next or what I forgot to do earlier. I begin to notice light, movement, expressions, and small, fleeting details.
Photography teaches me to slow down, even when everything around me is moving fast. I can’t really see if I’m distracted. I have to be present.
The camera becomes an anchor, much like the breath in traditional meditation. Whenever my mind wanders, the act of framing, focusing, and waiting gently pulls me back.
Wedding Photography: Presence in Emotion and Impermanence
Wedding photography intensifies this state of awareness.
A wedding day is emotionally charged, fast, unpredictable. Moments happen once and vanish. There are no rehearsals, no second chances. Presence isn’t optional — it’s essential.
When I photograph weddings, I enter a specific mental state. I’m surrounded by people, sounds, expectations, and constant movement, yet inside I feel calm and attentive. I observe more than I think.
I notice hands trembling before the ceremony, glances exchanged quietly, tears that appear and disappear in seconds. These moments can’t be staged or forced. They can only be recognized if I’m fully there.
Wedding photography has taught me a form of mindfulness rooted in trust. I prepare carefully, but once the day begins, I let go of control and rely on intuition and awareness. I move quickly, but my attention remains soft and open.
In this sense, photographing a wedding feels like meditation in motion, grounded in emotion, human connection, and impermanence.
Tennis and the Discipline of the Present Moment
Tennis might seem distant from photography, but mentally they are closely related.
On the court, there’s no room for distraction. If my thoughts drift — even briefly — I miss the ball. The rhythm of tennis forces me into the present moment: bounce, movement, breath, contact.
What tennis teaches me is that focus is not tension. Overthinking tightens the body and breaks the rhythm. Presence, on the other hand, allows things to flow naturally.
Like meditation, tennis rewards awareness over control. The feedback is immediate and honest, keeping me grounded in what is actually happening.
Sewing, Analog Photography, and the Value of Time
Sewing brings me into a different relationship with presence — one that feels very close to analog photography.
Like shooting on film, sewing requires trust in the process and respect for time. The result doesn’t appear immediately. It takes shape slowly, through a series of small, deliberate actions.
Needle in. Needle out. Thread pulled through.
There is waiting involved. Time is not something to fight against, but something to work with. Just as with analog photography, you can’t rush development without risking the result.
This delayed gratification is deeply meditative. It shifts the focus from outcome to process. You learn to stay with what you’re doing, knowing that the result will arrive only when it’s ready.
In this way, sewing, like analog photography, teaches patience, acceptance, and attention to detail. Each step matters, even if no one else will ever see it.
The Common Thread: Attention Over Outcome
What connects photography, wedding photography, tennis, sewing, and analog processes is not performance or efficiency, but attention.
None of these practices ask me to empty my mind. They ask me to engage it — gently, fully, honestly.
There is always feedback. A photograph works or it doesn’t. A tennis shot lands in or out. A stitch holds or unravels. This feedback keeps me anchored in reality rather than abstraction.
Most importantly, they offer presence without pressure. Focus without rigidity. Engagement without escape.
Creativity, Time, and a Quiet Form of Care
Over time, I’ve come to understand that the meditative power of these practices doesn’t lie in silence or stillness, but in attention.
Photography teaches me to stay with what I see.
Wedding photography teaches me to remain open while emotions unfold.
Tennis teaches me to trust the present moment, shot after shot.
Sewing, like analog photography, teaches me to respect time, to wait, and to believe in the process even when the result is not yet visible.
Each of these activities asks something simple and demanding at the same time: to be here. Not later. Not elsewhere. In a world that constantly pushes toward speed and immediacy, they invite me to slow down without stopping, to act without rushing, to create without forcing an outcome. They remind me that meaning often emerges quietly, through repetition, patience, and care.
Sometimes mindfulness looks like a formal practice.
Other times, it looks like light passing through a lens, a ball meeting the racket, or a thread slowly finding its way through fabric.
And in those moments, nothing else is needed.
P.S.
There is one more detail that ties all of this together, and it’s a sound.
The shutter of my Canon AE-1, solid and mechanical, gives me the same quiet satisfaction as the clean sound of the ball hitting my racket on a well-timed shot, or the steady rhythm of the sewing machine when the needle moves smoothly through fabric without resistance.
In those sounds, I recognize the same feeling: alignment.
Body, attention, and gesture coming together, exactly as they should.