Whitney Mikkelsen - Nature Photographer

03/29/2026

Sunsets provide the promise of a new day.

03/27/2026

I drive past the Audubon Sanctuary, where the trees lean in close over the road and the air always feels a little cooler, a little quieter, as if the land itself is holding its breath. I know these roads as I know my own heartbeat. They are the veins through which oxygen flows, allowing me to breathe. Stone walls stitched through the woods, old maples standing guard, weathered farmhouses tucked back from the road—this countryside raised me in ways I am still learning to name. Past the oldest house in Princeton, where a friend and I tirelessly worked on and entered a winning exhibit in the seventh-grade science fair, explaining in great detail just how powerful solar energy was and how it could help conserve energy. Even now, the house sits there as if time has agreed to leave part of it untouched, holding tight to pieces of who we once were.

Farther from Princeton, down RT 31, where the road bends gently through open fields and pine-lined stretches, I drive past Comit Pond and catch my breath as another tear falls; another memory comes alive. The water always seems to appear quietly, like an old friend waiting patiently to be noticed. This is where my babies learned to swim. I drive past the memories of sand in bathing suits over the years, wet towels draped across car seats, sun-warmed skin, and PB&Js on the beach. The jelly attracted any extra sand, infusing it directly into our lunch without fail. As Mom would say when my brothers and I were young and vacationing on the Cape, “There’s nothing like PB&J on the beach.” And she meant it, too. There really wasn’t. Something about New England summers—the lake water, the pine needles underfoot, the hum of insects, the golden slant of late afternoon sun—made even sandy sandwiches taste like love, family, and home.

03/19/2026

Relaxing mindfully in the rays of the setting sun.
Breathe and let peace flow inside, surrounding the heart.
Let warmth settle into the tight places that have been neglected.
Light softens the edges of the day, asking nothing more.
In this quiet glow, even pain loosens its grip just a little.
Stay here a moment longer, where nothing needs fixing. Everything slows, fitting perfectly into place.
Just the self, the fading light, and a breath that finally feels easy.
Be kind and soft.

01/07/2026

Hold your heart up and look to unfold.

11/16/2025

Leaving Louisville. 💔

08/15/2025

I’m back home after a while of not being back home. It seems that all the flowers and bloomed making this part of the world very colorful right now. Look up to the sky for peace.

01/31/2025

Breathe in comfort. Breathe out peace.

01/01/2025

The trick is to not take meditation too seriously. Hold no goals or resolutions but get to know yourself more deeply. Slowing down, melting, and recognizing your fears helps. What are your fears? Can you sit and watch them melt away? This is the work of being human. Nothing else matters. Thank you for breathing at the same moment. We are here together. In breath, out breath. Breathe with me.

03/09/2024

Whittierphotography.art

After years of living with intense pain, I'm finding it challenging to rediscover myself after my pain has lessened. We take on different personas to help deal emotionally with what our bodies experience. This is a trauma response. Is it possible to grieve the absence of physical pain after living under it for what felt like a lifetime? I miss my slow, meditative life that came to me with pain; because of pain. I miss not having strength to worry about what people think of me. I miss not worrying or thinking about my right foot: 'are my toes pointing forward?' I had thought some of that would stay part of me, but l'm finding that I need to create space to slow down. Vanity over my walking has returned and I'm saddened by this. Take it one fern at a time. Unfurling quietly and creatively. These are thoughts that I never expected. Grieving pain is surprising to me. I will always have an intimate relationship with pain; it's not going anywhere. But the last year, under severe pain and stress, I created art and wrote about 130 stories because I was unable to move comfortably, or at times, at all. Unexpected sadness comes over me thinking about the past year. Sad that I had to experience it, but also sadness over the changes in life’s tempo.

02/17/2024

02/13/2024

Yes, I do have a very cool website. As well as the most wonderful web designer ever!!! Charlotte Collins! Go see what she’s done. https://whittierphotography.art/