Mental Snapshots

I am very much an amateur photographer.  My little point-and-shoot Sony doesn't qualify as a professional camera by any stretch of the imagination, but it takes decent photos.   What I lack in equipment, I make up for in effort; I take photo after photo in search of the perfect photograph. The one that makes people say, "Wow! Great shot."

People say to me, "You post on Facebook a lot."  

Yes, I do.  I post photos of me doing fun things and my son smiling and happy.  I want my friends and family to see and feel a part of my happy life and I try not to complain much.  In my mind, I am sharing my joy - I've been through tough times in my past and now I am happier than I've ever been in my whole life.  I figure my friends will understand and know this about me; those who don't know me well enough will not understand, and I can't necessarily change that.  I'm learning, though.  There is sharing and there is oversharing, and I don't want to be the latter.

Today, I read this blog post that stopped my heart.  A mother was so busy taking photos and composing her social media updates in her head that her son nearly drowned.  I admire her bravery to come forward and admit that she was neglecting her son and own up to her mistakes; a blogger opens herself up to public criticism, and in this case, the comments could be harsh.   She was clearly sending a message: "Don't do this".  I was paying attention.  I was paying so much attention I cried through the end of her post and realized I could do the same thing if I'm not careful.  I'm paranoid around water, but it's certainly not the only situation where lack of attention can result in disaster.

The rest of the evening, I put my phone and my camera down and forgot about taking photos with the gadgets on hand.  I took pictures in my mind and let my memory do the capturing.

This is why this post contains only one photo; one I took days ago.  Read, and then close your eyes and try to imagine with me.  

I tried to imagine what it was like for my parents during my childhood, when they had a camera but used film sparingly. 

I  watched my son play with his cousins in the dusky light of the evening sun and etched the image in my head.

I saw the pure joy on his face as he played baseball in the yard with nothing on but a baseball hat.

I saw the green, lush grass of a yard well-cared for by my hard-working father.

I saw the screen porch in which I grew up eating dinners in the summer, listening to the Beach Boys on 8-track.

I saw the luminous gloss of my son's skin, still baby-soft and unlined.

I saw the beauty of this house and the sparkle of the pool, the scene of so many happy summers.

I heard laughter.

I heard the dog next door, barking at our joy.  Or joining in the chaos. 

I heard birds and bugs buzzing around us in the summer heat in an unusually hot Indiana summer.

I felt the moment.  I lived in the moment without a camera.   

And it was so much better.  

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Inspired by the teachings of Rachel Macy Stafford at:




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This week, I linked up with @heatheroftheeo for her Just Write linky for freewriting.
Find her here: