I read somewhere, probably somewhere pithy like Pinterest, that black and white pictures are to the creative soul what a novel is without pictures. We see an image, and our imagination takes us the rest of the way. I don't know, it stuck with me. Maybe because I am a defender of novels in a day where reading is qualified as Buzzfeed lists, trending hashtags, and linked articles no longer than 700 words. Or maybe it is just because behind a black and white filter, an image seems to take on more depth, more importance. Suddenly, I can see majesty in something I didn't notice the first time around.
I can see here how Skylar is ageing. I can see how soft and fluffy her fur is, after a morning when I don't think I stopped once to pat her coat or cuddle her squishy body. I can see depth where I usually see nuisance.
This fall we have made decisions about how busy we are to be, how intentionally we are to make good use of resources, how much free space we'd like to leave ourselves. For fun, for housework, for impromptu all-doll tea parties and subsequent all-doll sleep sessions on the playroom carpet. I see things moving a lot slower, and when I notice something sweet, telling or otherwise beautiful I remember to take a picture. I frame the shot, smile behind the lens and snap the shutter, committing to both my own memory and the camera card's a moment. I revisit it when I upload it to my laptop, editing shadows and contrasts, light and dark.
The poet in me is fed and happy. I have found beauty, lyric, symbolism and a story told in a picture I took of a fleeting moment. I have made space and time in my days to do nothing but watch my family be silly. I catch Abby leading Robin by the hand to a corner of the couch to cuddle, just the two of them, unprompted. I see Hailey pick herself up after a fall and choose to smile instead of cry. I see Summer do some cute new leg move and scan the room to meet me eyes, checking to see if I saw her accomplishment. I did.