The Dependent Arising
Life and lessons through the lens.
The Dependent Arising.
February 2025
For some, they know right away what they want to call their website or blog. The purpose is clear and the name just fits. This wasn’t the case for me. I spent months trying to come up with a name that combined my interests in photography, philosophy and travel. Perhaps it was a lack of clear purpose but there was something gnawing inside of me.
Although this first blog is a single narrative, it is a combination of events from my recent travels and time to reflect whilst back home in Australia. When travelling in Nepal and India, you can’t help but have some of the belief systems start to rub off a little. It was through being introduced to some of this wisdom that maybe a little clarity, and even some principles I could apply to my photography, started to occur.
Dependent Arising was one such concept -
Pratītyasamutpāda (Sanskrit: प्रतीत्यसमुत्पाद, Pāli: paṭiccasamuppāda), commonly translated as dependent origination, or dependent arising, is a key doctrine in Buddhism shared by all schools of Buddhism. It states that all dharmas (phenomena) arise in dependence upon other dharmas: "if this exists, that exists; if this ceases to exist, that also ceases to exist". The basic principle is that all things (dharmas, phenomena, principles) arise in dependence upon other things.
(Source: Wikipedia)
And so, whatever the causes and conditions that have brought you here, I hope you enjoy it!
Tea and biscuits - A village in Ladakh, India.
“If this exists, that exists; if this ceases to exist, that also ceases to exist.”
A bit out there, huh? It sometimes feels a little funny what swirls in the mind when walking through the naked mountain landscapes of The Himalaya. The simple beauty of jagged rock against a deep blue sky juxtaposed by the soft lines of a Buddhist stupa. The silent gompas - their whitewashed walls clinging to cliffs; their red-robed monks reminded of impermanence by the clacking-echo of falling rocks into the chasms below. The mind can become a little untethered in all that open space.
If truth be told, I wasn’t being mindful and looking for some deeper meaning. Hell, I wasn’t even paying attention to the beauty all around me. Although I was trekking in Ladakh, my mind was subsumed in racking my brains for a website domain name that fused my seemingly disparate interests in philosophy, photography and travel.
Everything I had read seemed to suggest a need for a clear purpose when “going online”. Success, it seemed, could only be measured by “views”, “likes” and the best dividend of all … money. This could only be done with a process, a strategy and a will to win. I can’t tell you how many headlines on Medium and Substack tell you that “95% of people fail unless you follow me”. The ego can be a powerful beast.
It was around about now that I felt lost. Not only in trying to decide what my online strategy should be but I’d been trekking for over three hours since my last break and had been advised by a local guide at my last stop that the next village was only two hours away. I’d not seen anyone for over two hours and the mountain shadows of the deep valley now seemed overly ominous as panic set in. A night sleeping out in the mountains of The Himalaya with no tent or sleeping bag was not something I had bargained for. Ugh… I should have kept my mind on the trek and not some lousy blog or website name!
Without certainty of where I was or where the next village might be (and even if I was still walking up the right valley), I figured I could trek the three hours back to the earlier village before nightfall and at least find shelter. I’d already walked eight hours under the weight of a backpack. I’d run out of drinking water. Buddhist monks apparently pray for challenges to help practice patience… maybe their prayers had been answered through me and my idiocy.
About one hour into the return journey, a small stream I’d seen earlier seemed to offer at least some refreshment. I’d noticed some prayer flags just off the trail and so walked towards these in hope of a clear pool or something similar to refill my water bottle. I found something better… a cold water spring bubbled up through a crack in the rocks. If I’d neglected to appreciate my surroundings earlier, the thirst quenching feeling of that first mouthful of sweet, cool, water will be a memory that will stay with me forever.
I dropped my backpack to the ground. A ton of bricks lifted from my shoulders but the weight of panic remained. Despite any attempt to remain calm, I had now become aware of how quickly I’d been walking and the amount of energy that had been expended. My breathing was quick and shallow and it wasn’t just from being three thousand meters above sea level. With a deep breath, I silently thanked those who had come before me and placed the prayer flags that had allowed me to refuel and rest.
As the gloom of the valley was building, I couldn’t rest too long. Even if my body wanted to stay seated by the stream a little longer, my mind pulled me down the path to get to shelter before dark. Low, grey clouds also now seemed to threaten rain. This was turning into one of those situations where you wished it wasn’t happening but you felt that once you’re through it, it should make for a funny story one day… but, at the time, that one day feels like a long way off.
As I bent down and threw my backpack over my shoulder, a small figure in the shadows of the valley was making their way along the path and… they were coming towards me! The dissolution of panic was palpable and everything that looked dark and foreboding now looked light and beautiful.
I stood up to greet the stranger. He was a local villager and was walking back to his home. He confirmed that I was on the right path but the earlier guide’s estimation of distance to the next village had been off by a few hours. After sharing a bag of small green apples, some dried fruit and chapatti, he offered to walk with me. A bit of company after the last few hours was just the medicine to resettle the nerves and take the mind off the aches and pains that seem to demand attention after several hours of trekking.
Tenzin, my new companion, was Buddhist. The conversation as we walked wove between village life, work and philosophy. I estimated he was in his 30s as he had a wife and children who were off studying at school many miles way. As we chatted, it occurred to me how quick my Western mind had judged his life and his education and therefore his likely lack of understanding. But his depth of knowledge of philosophy and the Buddhist tenets of compassion and wisdom surpassed many that I have met with more formal training.
Time seemed to disappear. We passed the spot that I had turned around earlier a lot more quickly than I expected. Stars had started to fill the gap above us in the valley. It seemed that even the grey clouds had lifted with my good fortune. The thoughts of website domains and capturing photos had receded with the last of the sun’s rays; the conversation and thoughts shared with Tenzin offered something much more enlightening even though we could barely see the rocky road ahead.
After another two hours of walking, a small porchlight down an embankment was the signal for us to part. The homestead’s beacon, the refuge I thought I may never find a few hours earlier, was drawing me in. The thought of removing my boots and enjoying a chai had never felt more welcoming. Tenzin still had a few hours to go before he’d reach his village but as he had walked the path so often, whether it was night or day, it didn’t matter to him.
As we parted ways, I thanked Tenzin for being my guide and I reflected a little at what had brought us together.
“Thanks again Tenzin, it was so great to meet you and I owe you big time!”
He laughed. “It was nice to share some of my journey home with you. Maybe our paths will cross again. It makes me wonder what has been before for our paths to cross like they have. May the causes and conditions tomorrow be of a nature that hep you on jour journey and allow you take some great photos.”
After we shook hands, I watched Tenzin walk off into the dark and felt grateful for his company. His comments about each photo being dependent on causes and conditions resonated deeply. Sure, there are books and movies about sliding door moments but whether we capture that photo or not I felt I mattered less. What impacts a photograph, and even whether we capture the image at all, is ultimately dependent on all the factors that have led up to that moment; this included both the external and the internal. The pressure I had sometimes felt that I was missing something by not taking a photo now felt much less; maybe it was better to sometimes just slow down and build more connection with the people and environment around me; and, perhaps, by choosing not to even take a photo would be a cause for an even better photo in the future. I’d missed taking the photo I hoped for of Tenzin to help remind me of our encounter but it didn’t seem to matter. These thoughts struck me a little like a lightning bolt… not just because of how it would impact my future mindset on the photography process but I now had the name of a website and an idea on how to start my first blog.
Postscript
Tenzin arrived home around 2am. The next day, he was making tea and when looking out his window, he saw someone walking through his village with a camera. Our paths would cross again. It was time to take that photo.
The Poet.
March 2025
Sometimes it’s encounters and photos that you weren’t expecting that have the most meaning.
Bushie waits for his name to be called up to recite his poem - The Milton Show, Australia.
“Is Yowah far?”
After I’d asked the question, I felt the rush of embarrassment when you know you’ve asked something silly and there’s no way to bring the words back.
“I travelled fourteen hundred kilometres to be here mate” was his laconic reply. His shirt was embroidered above the left pocket with “Yowah Opal Fields” and even though I didn’t know where Yowah was, the extent of his travels didn’t come as a surprise; I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen any mullock mounds around town.
He extended his hand towards mine - “M’name’s Bushie”.
I’d come to the Milton Show to take photos for a yet-to-be-built website. I figured if I wanted local photography work, displaying photos of local events would be a start. I’d arrived early and felt a little lost. When photographing such an event, you can’t be everywhere at once and even event timing is “subject to change”; a code for “as soon as possible once the event before has finished”.
I’d been on my way to the woodchopping arena. It would surely be a place of action, crowds and the prospect of some photos that say, “This is the Milton Show”. As I followed the rhythm of axe on wood to the back of the showground, I stumbled across a nondescript performance tent. A chalkboard at the bottom of the stage read “8am – Bush Poets”. To say there were more than a few audience seats still available would be an understatement. It was only 8:30am after all. Maybe there’d be more to see at 3pm when the “The Mullet Comp’” was on.
As I turned to continue to look for the burley men of the axe-swinging type, a thin, sun-weathered figure leaned with a bent elbow on a wheely-bin that doubled as a bar table. His orange high-vis shirt was impeccably clean and had been custom fitted with floral-designed sleeves. Although early in the morning, he clutched a stubby holder which I guessed contained a little something to calm the nerves. This was Bushie and he was waiting for his name to be called up to the stage to recite his poem for The John David Memorial – Open Bush Poetry Speaking Competition.
“Ya gotta work on it. You gotta write, re-write and re-write again. And it’s a show. You can’t wear the same clothes each time. It’s a new performance each time you deliver.” Bush Poetry wasn’t for the faint hearted. Bushie was someone who knew and loved his craft. It was not only in his voice but you could see it in his eyes when he described the feeling of performing on stage.
Bushie shared with me the backstory of his poem. I nodded and didn’t give it too much thought as I could hear the woodchoppers across the way and was thinking about the photos I may be missing. Other Bush Poets were doing their thing and as Bushie and I watched his competitors get called up one by one, there was something that hooked me. These guys and their verse were really good!
As the fourth poet finished, the call on the PA was made - “Bushie. You’re up”. I wished him luck and he made his way onto the stage.
For the uninitiated, city-folk, like me, Bush Poetry may seem like something quaint, old fashioned; a side-show to the main arena. The thrashing of trees into little pieces as quickly as possible by the woodchoppers felt closer to the world in which I live. But Bushie’s story about the loss of his dog, his best mate, gave me the chance to slow down, to listen and to be touched by what it means to be human. It was best thing I saw or heard for the whole festival. And, once all was said and done, the judges agreed and awarded Bushie first prize… and it was a place where the best photos from the day were made.
Postscript
Bushie and I had exchanged contact details and so I was able to share some photos with him. This also led to some reflection back to my first question of Bushie. Maybe it wasn’t so silly after all. For some, fourteen hundred kilometers may seem a long way. Distances in Australia are vast but when travelling to share one’s passion for the love of it, distances perhaps don’t feel that great. Maybe Bushie didn’t feel that Yowah was that far after all; it’s just a state of mind. And I’m sure the drive home felt even less when holding the winner’s pay cheque.