I sat on the floor, thoroughly exhausted and frustrated by the mountains of photo albums that I was still purging, though it had been two and a half years after my Dad passed away. Piles of photos lay next to me on the floor, ready for the trash, such as photos of mountains and trees and places and people I never saw or knew. I felt angry at technology for leaving this trail of stuff for me to clean up.
“I think I must have Amish blood in me,” I said to Bev as I chatted on the phone with her.
“What?” she laughed.
“I heard many years ago that the Amish believe that if you take their photo, it steals their soul. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m beginning to believe it,” I huffed as I chucked another faded photo of something-or-other into the pile, “All of these photos are draining my life force! I’ve spent months going through them, and every time I turn around there’s another box full, not to mention the countless reels of slides that I still have to go through.”
I returned to the task of sorting the photos, as I noted the irony of simultaneously cursing technology as I said goodbye to Bev on my cell phone.
Now and then a rare photo would catch my interest, such as the tiny photo of my parents’ wedding when they eloped. It captured my attention for a few moments. Cute, I thought. Then I found myself wishing that I had known what it was like to be there in the room with them that day. The photographer missed the moment himself, because he was watching it through the lens of a camera.
My thoughts suddenly trailed back to 1995, when I was watching my adorable daughter playing her part in a fifth grade class play about Thomas Edison. I watched her through the lens of a video camera that was so heavy it made my shoulder ache. She suddenly ducked out of view, and I couldn’t find her in the camera lens. I frantically put the camera down and scanned the room to find her again. There she was, as adorable as ever, except this time I was watching her without the camera in the way, and I was in no rush to pick it back up and hoist it onto my aching shoulder. I just wanted to enjoy the moment. My daughter saw me, and smiled proudly. I looked around the room at the dozens of other parents whose faces were tucked away behind video cameras, and it made me feel sad. My then-husband grabbed the camera out of my lap, angrily resuming the task that I had abandoned of videoing the event. It was in that moment that I knew that I never wanted to watch my daughter in a play, a soccer game, or even on Christmas Day opening her presents, except with my own two eyes.
When I put that camera down, I put it down for good. I have never once watched the video of her class play about Thomas Edison. I don’t even know where it is. But, I have mentally reviewed every blessed moment of her life. Her first steps, her first words, the way she would jump up and down on the bed while singing the alphabet song, her first homemade Halloween costume, her squeal of joy on Christmas morning when she opened her stocking and found a chocolate Santa, her sweet, soft, gentle face as she slept, and so much more, indelibly imprinted in my mind.
My thoughts then fast forwarded to a more recent time when I watched a marvelous moment that happened on a tour bus in, I assumed, Africa. A beautiful lioness jumped into the bus (clearly, she was part of the tour guide’s show, and was as gentle as anything). She rubbed against the people, and let them pet her. But, the bizarre thing is that every single person on that tour bus had a phone in their hand and were videoing the moment, not even engaging eyeball to eyeball with this astonishingly beautiful creature. My first thought was, “Put the phucking phones down!” I would have thrown mine out the bus window to free up both of my hands to give that beautiful girl hugs!
Again, the irony: if they hadn’t been videoing the moment, I never would have been able to watch it.
Back to the tedium of sorting old photos, I pondered technology, and how we have been trained to witness life through a lens. As with all good things, moderation is key, I thought with a shrug. “I mean, how many photos do we need of Mom and Dad standing in front of Niagra Falls?” I said aloud, rolling my eyes. I chose the best of eight, and set it aside.
As I stared at the photo, beautiful memories came flooding back, and I suddenly felt rather blessed that I had such beautiful parents, and a photo to remember them by.
Maybe this wasn’t about technology leaving me a trail of stuff to clean up. Maybe it was more about digging for the buried treasure it left behind.
