Life Through a Viewfinder
I love order. When I was a child, my parents entertained
often. My mother would remind me to clean my room and I would even tidy my
drawers just in case a party guest chose to inspect them.
My bookshelves are categorized, and the fiction books are by author. In my kitchen, items are stored with like items, and all labels face front, of course. Not all my life is so neat and tidy. Having children entails a certain amount of dirt and chaos. But if I had my druthers, my house would be clean, organized, and serene all the time.
My love of order applies to numbers, too. Many years ago, my
phone number was 665-3298. I loved it. Each number was one digit less than the
one before it (except two and nine, of course, but three squared is nine), and all
of them are on the same side of the keypad. I had a post office box once that
was 842, and my zip code ended in 8642. Everyone with a number fixation is
nodding. You understand.
So imagine my thrill when I realized it was November 11, 2011.
In just a few minutes it would be 11:11:11am. Many times I have wanted to observe
the clock ticking over some satisfying string of numbers. An example would be 11:12:13
on August 9, 2010, or 08:08:08 on August 8, 2008. But inexplicably, I had missed
all the ideal time/date sequences of the last eight years.
I pulled out my digital camera and waited, with the clock on
my computer maximized. I wasn't going to miss this one. The seconds ticked down
as I watched through the viewfinder of my camera, and—click! I got it! I looked
at my computer to enjoy the moment, and . . . wait. . . it was already 11:11:15.
I had missed it after all!
No, as you can see, I got the picture. But I missed
experiencing the moment. I captured it on film, so to speak, so that I could go
back and relive it. But I hadn’t lived the moment in the first place because I
was recording it for posterity instead. Somehow, the thrill was gone.
My son graduated magna cum laude from one of the top
universities for his major. I was so proud of him. I walked most of the way around the
stadium to find the best place to savor the moment as I watched him receive his
diploma . . . through the viewfinder of my camera. I felt let down, as if I had
actually missed this important milestone in his life instead of witnessing it.
Why did it become more important to me to capture the
present in a static medium for the future than to live fully in the moment? What
is truly more important—the perfect picture, with me necessarily distanced from
emotion by the camera, or the imperfect yet emotionally-evocative memory?
I love taking pictures, don’t get me wrong. And I love
seeing the astounding once-in-a-lifetime photos where serendipity and camera
dance together. But I am so very glad that I did not have a camera in my hands
when my son kissed his brand-new bride at the altar. Do I remember it
perfectly? No. But I remember how I felt as I lived perfectly and altogether
present in that moment.
A child delights in life, both the extraordinary and the
mundane. I remember walking on the hard crust of the record snowfall that
turned our yard to fairyland. I remember sitting on my swing eating watermelon and
spitting the seeds. I remember touching the Liberty Bell. I remember the magic
of pulling peanuts from the ground. I remember seeing
the Mona Lisa. I remember sailing into the New York harbor past the Statue of
Liberty after years overseas. I remember flying a kite so high it was a tiny
red dot in the bright blue sky. I remember climbing trees until the branches were so thin they bent under my weight.
My prayer is that I have learned my lesson, that I will live
my life with the eyes, enthusiasm, and engagement of a child, not just observe
it through a viewfinder. It’s a choice, I know. I want to grow into the best
things about childhood until I make that choice every day. Every moment.
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