Walk this Way

Living at the top of a hill with kitchen windows that open to the east, I am met some winter mornings with a spectacular sunrise breaking over the horizon. My reaction is always the same: I drop what I’m doing (usually pouring a cup of coffee) and try to run for my camera. Depending on my stage of dress, I weigh the possibility of missing it altogether while I gather what I need to venture out into the cold to digitally preserve it. I usually give it a try anyway, though; but it seems no matter how quickly I can respond—even if the sky is still bursting in full splendor when I return—the photo never comes close to matching what I’ve seen through my own two lenses.

Last Friday was one of those days. And I almost did what I always do, until I thought about all those disappointing, unworthy, lifeless shots. Like these:

Remarkably unremarkable-looking West Michigan sunrise.

Jet trails offsetting a full moon. Much better in person.

Actually taken while driving in Pennsylvania. So much wrong with this picture.

So, I sat down, opened the curtains, and settled in. I actually sipped my coffee, rather than throwing it at my face before I rushed out the door. And I soaked up each streak of pink, red, and orange until they fattened and stretched and finally scattered into nothing.

After that, I started giving second thoughts to all the times that I’ve spent focusing on the camera settings, taking shot after shot to get the perfect documentation of my experience. And then not experiencing it at all. 

Sure, we all know that we’re supposed to live in the moment. Even as I write this, I cringe at the prosaic simplicity of what I’m saying. But, the truth is, we don’t live by this truth. So, this was a real lesson that came to me on my terms, though many years late.

You can capture a butterfly in a jar; but you take away from it what makes it beautiful: its movement. And you can capture static moments in time; but you steal from yourself the opportunity to savor every bit they have to show you.