Temporary
I was in the kitchen making lunch, moving between my spot at the stove and the double glass doors that open to the backyard so I could keep an eye on Oliver while he played. That’s when I noticed this delicate lace pattern of light and shadow, cast by the sun through the curtains and spilling onto the floor.
I paused, finding it more beautiful than the lace itself, and noticing how it transformed this small stretch of otherwise drab linoleum. I grabbed my camera.
It was breezy and partly cloudy, and the shadow faded in and out as I photographed it. Each time it disappeared before I could get a good shot, I found myself wondering if it would come back at all. It reminded me of a conversation Ted and I had over the weekend about life and time- how temporary each stage is, something that has felt especially apparent since having children.
Every chapter is bittersweet, knowing you have to leave one behind before greeting the next. Photography gives us the unnatural ability to recall, in detail, some of the aging faces and passing moments that accompany a particular time. I sometimes wonder how we might experience our lives differently without that ability.
Chasing light is one of my favorite activities. I’m drawn to it, a bit like a moth. I love finding the patches of light that settle around our home and noticing how they shift throughout the year. Often they land somewhere I rarely pay attention to, and I’ll suddenly see what needs dusting or sweeping.
Our thoughts behave the same way, drifting from one subject to another, illuminating something we didn’t see before. Some are clarifying, while others are unsettling.
But like the light on the floor, they never hold still. They come and go, and we’re left deciding which ones to follow- and which ones to leave in the dark.
