Capturing Florida's Landscapes: My Journey with Phototherapy

There are moments in photography that feel less like taking a picture and more like stepping into alignment with something larger than yourself.

Not spiritually.

Not mystically.

More like physics briefly agreeing to be seen.

For me, those moments happen when the sun passes through places it only visits twice a year. When light, architecture, and my own stubborn planning intersect for a few quiet minutes before the world resumes its noise.

This is my version of phototherapy.

Why I Chase These Alignments

The world has a way of grinding you down. Slowly, efficiently, without asking permission. Planning these photographs is how I push back.

When I’m calculating solar angles, scouting positions, and waiting for the right day, my mind narrows. The chaos recedes. I’m left with something tangible: time and space behaving predictably, even beautifully.

These shots don’t happen by accident. And neither does the calm they bring.

Standing in the same place, on the same day, year after year, waiting for the sun to return to a precise position reminds me of something simple and grounding: Some things are still reliable.

Sunrise Between Steel: Sunshine Skyway Bridge

At sunrise, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge becomes more than infrastructure. It becomes a measuring device.

The bridge doesn’t move. The water doesn’t care. The sun does exactly what it has always done.

Only twice a year does it rise at the precise azimuth needed to sit cleanly between the main span. Miss it by days, and the sun drifts north or south. Miss it by feet, and it clips a cable or tower.

Standing there in the dark, waiting, I’m not thinking about emails or deadlines or the quiet erosion of patience that modern life specializes in. I’m thinking about alignment. About precision. About being present enough not to miss what I came for.

When the sun finally lifts into place, the frame feels inevitable. As if the photograph was always waiting, and I simply showed up on time.

Sunset Contained: Venice Fishing Pier

Sunset at the Venice Fishing Pier teaches a quieter lesson.

Here, the sun isn’t floating freely. It’s contained. Compressed. Guided through a narrow corridor of pylons that allow no margin for error. Six inches off-center and the illusion collapses.

This alignment also happens only twice a year.

The pier becomes a tunnel. The sun becomes a destination. The water fractures the reflection, reminding me how brief this stillness really is.

Standing there, watching the light drain away, I’m aware of how temporary everything is. That isn’t depressing. It’s clarifying.

The moment exists. Then it doesn’t.

And that’s the point.

The Technical How (So You Can Do This Too)

The process is surprisingly approachable once you know what to look for.

Understand the Sun’s Path

The sun rises and sets at different points along the horizon throughout the year. Only near the spring and fall equinoxes does it align east–west enough to pass cleanly through fixed structures like bridges and piers.

Use Planning Tools

Apps like PhotoPills, Sun Seeker, or The Photographer’s Ephemeris allow you to:

• See the sun’s azimuth on any date

• Preview where it will rise or set relative to landmarks

• Adjust your shooting position before ever leaving home

  
  

Scout in Advance

Visit the location days or weeks ahead of time. Identify exact shooting positions. These shots reward precision.

Watch the Weather

Thin clouds can enhance color. Heavy clouds erase the alignment. You need a clean horizon when the sun hits its mark.

Be Early. Be Still.

Arrive early. Set up. Then wait. Let the moment come to you.

Why the Why Matters More Than the How

Anyone can learn the technical steps. That part is teachable. What matters more is why you’d want to.

For me, these photographs are proof that I can still slow the world down by paying attention. That I can choose patience over panic. Presence over noise.

When the sun lines up perfectly, I don’t feel triumphant. I feel anchored. Not because I captured something rare, but because I participated in it.

For a few minutes, time, space, and intention agree. Then the light moves on.

And somehow, I’m steadier for having stood there.

Phototherapy

I call this phototherapy because it works the way therapy should. It gives my mind something honest to hold onto. Something measurable. Something that doesn’t lie.

When I plan these shots, I’m not trying to escape the world. I’m trying to reenter it on better terms. I’m reminding myself that time still has a rhythm, that space still has order, and that I can choose where to stand inside both.

The sun doesn’t care how I feel. The bridge doesn’t adjust. The pier doesn’t bend. That constancy is the medicine.

For a few minutes, my thoughts quiet down enough to match the horizon. I breathe slower. I wait. I pay attention. And when the light finally aligns, it feels less like taking a photograph and more like confirming that I’m still here.

The image is proof that the moment happened. The stillness is proof that I did too.

That’s why I keep coming back.

The Journey Continues

As I continue my journey, I find new locations and experiences that deepen my understanding of light and landscape. Each adventure is a chance to learn, grow, and share my passion with others.

Whether it’s a workshop or a casual outing, I aim to inspire aspiring photographers. I want them to see the beauty in the world around them and to understand the importance of patience and precision in photography.

I invite you to join me on this journey. Together, we can explore the landscapes of Florida and capture the magic of the Milky Way.

Let’s create something beautiful together.