Consider the practice of photographing a flower. A conventional approach might seek the perfect lighting, the sharpest focus, the most striking composition. The com-myos approach asks: What is this flower’s own time? How does its being-there call to be seen? The photographer becomes a bodhisattva of attention —not a master but a midwife, bringing forth the flower’s myo (its subtle, wondrous suchness) into visible form. The camera, then, is not a barrier but a membrane. It filters, yes, but it also facilitates contact. Through the viewfinder, the dualism of “me” and “flower” softens; there is only the event of seeing-being-seen. The character myo (妙) appears in Dōgen’s Shōbōgenzō as part of myōhō (wondrous Dharma), pointing to the inexpressible depth of ordinary things. A pebble, a breath, a shadow—each holds a mystery that eludes conceptual capture. The com-myos-camera is precisely that which does not aim to capture. Instead, it invites . The camera’s mechanical eye, paradoxically, reveals the non-mechanical texture of the real. When light passes through the aperture and imprints a sensor or film, we witness a literal co-production: photons that have traveled from a distant sun or a nearby lamp touch silicon or silver, mediated by glass and human intention. This is not representation; this is continuation .
Thus, the com-myos photographer treats the camera as a koan —a paradoxical riddle designed to disrupt habitual thought. For example: “What is the shutter speed of compassion?” Or: “When you focus on the horizon, where does the background go?” The answers are not verbal but enacted. Manual focus becomes a meditation. Shooting with a limited number of exposures (as with film) becomes a practice of non-grasping. Editing one’s own work—deleting, printing, archiving—becomes a rite of release. The com-myos-camera is not a brand or a format. It is an attitude : curious, humble, and co-creative. In the end, the com-myos-camera develops not only film but the photographer. Each image is a lesson in interdependence. The blurry shot teaches that control is an illusion. The overexposed sky teaches that light is a gift, not a given. The missed moment—the one that got away—teaches that most of reality remains unseen, and that is as it should be. The Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi (imperfect, impermanent, incomplete) finds its perfect instrument in the camera, for every photograph is a fragment, a fading, a whisper. Com-myos-camera
In practice, the com-myos photographer cultivates shoshin (beginner’s mind). Each frame is a fresh encounter. The exposure settings—shutter speed, aperture, ISO—are not technical hurdles but rhythmic partners. A slow shutter reveals the myo of motion: water becoming silk, crowds dissolving into ghosts. A wide aperture isolates a face against a blur of bokeh, showing how attention creates its own ontology. The photographer learns that sharpness is a choice, not a virtue; that blur, grain, and flare are not errors but the camera’s own voice singing the world’s uncertainty. Consider the practice of photographing a flower