There’s this clunky urge in me to always take a picture.
To try to capture a moment so that I can remember the smells and the moods and the words and the looks tied to it.
I’ve done it before in all kinds of places and at all kinds of times. The moment seems so absolutely perfect that I start fumbling through pockets or bags to find the right camera with the right setting at the right time in the right light to get it captured––stored––for later use.
It feels clunky. Like I’m crashing through the moment with some back-to-the-future kind of gear in an effort to trap its perfect mystery.
So that I can pull some more of the energy from it later on. Or the smell. Or the mood. Or the words and the looks.
But they were tied to the moment. And as the moment goes, so they go.
And then I find myself, after the moment…maybe days or weeks or years…wishing I had stopped my clunky fumble for a camera to capture something fleeting, but rather sat and enjoyed its fleeting nature when I realized the kind of moment I was in.
There’s a danger to trusting this kind of thin space, the moments when time and heaven and earth not so much collide together, but rather when our eyes suddenly notice that they’ve always been dancing together. In trusting the thin space, we have to only take from it what it offers us.
We have to trust what it will leave in us.
What it will do to us.
What it speaks to of a kingdom future for us.
There’s no trapping it for more of anything.
And it goes.
I had one of those moments last night: Sitting in the back yard eating a community-made meal, catching up over good wine with stellar people. I fought the grab-my-camera urge for about thirty minutes, and then the freedom of trusting the thin space found me.
I had one of those moments a week ago: Sitting on the stairs in a home eating a community-made meal, catching up over good wine with stellar people.
There are no pictures to take me back to either.
But both moments are faithful in what they have graciously offered to leave behind for me.
And I will trust that it was worth not grabbing the camera.
So you have achieved another level of depth, of openness to the meaning of life. There’s nothing wrong w/ a photo for sure. Mindfulness, being fully present in the moment, simply can not always be captured except by the soul.
Jerry Kizer said to me once about traveling that you can either enjoy the moment for all it’s worth or take pictures. You can’t have both. The thoughts here are timely. 59 364.5 +. Thank you.
I remember once in Italy with Seth and Grant sitting for drinks in front of an amazing view one night. We were smoking cigars and twisting the wrappers and all that stuff. Right before I left, I took a picture of the mess on the table––the leftovers of the moment––and it is, still, one of my favorite shots.
It is interesting to think that sometimes the moments that are embedded in our memory are the moments lived; the moments you would have been too busy looking behind a lens. thought provoking stuff!
thank you for sharing!
It seems paradoxically strange that sometimes, moments are only remembered because someone did indeed take the shot. Perhaps a moment gone unnoticed were it not for someone with a camera. Love your photos, by the way!
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