I haven't been able to figure out why the pictures never made it to the walls of my home since we moved here years ago. I knew it was something psychological...complicated...sad...but didn't really fully get it.
Pictures are reminders. We were young. Light. Hopeful and happy. Alive. Healthy. The hallway in my old home was full of people who promised me that they would stay in touch. Walking by them reminded me on a daily basis that they were too busy. Other pictures were of family. The family that had fallen from a full and excited one to one of loss and despair. There were pictures of babies...that had grown already...never to be seen like that again. They don't tell you when you become a parent that you will have to let go of the child you know over and over again. Other pictures were of a young couple just starting a life's journey. I can't even begin to tell you how much those pictures hurt so I won't even try. And then there was me. Young, tan, thin and smiling...she was lost somewhere along the way as well. So the pictures that were up to remind us of the full and joyful life we were all leading had become painful realizations that they had all fallen short. Now, there are people missing. A picture should make me feel nostalgic and loving but at this point they still just hurt.
I have discovered the camera again lately. The girl that took many pictures and was in many as well had stopped doing both. Lately, I feel the need to capture things again. Though I still hold the theory that we should be in the moment and hold the feeling with our memory and emotion...a picture is a nice way to keep track of it all. But as I just looked to the wall near the very place that I wake up and start my day every morning it hit me...I've been taking pictures of things. Places. Rocks. Nature. These things won't go away. They won't change. They won't leave or die or look different or get sick or hurt me. They just are. Just recently and after many, many years...new pictures have gone up. I look at them now. They are capturing moments again but the gift that the photograph gives you in one instant can be the very thing that breaks your heart in the next. They become physical reminders of the pain. I guess my battle with the photograph will continue just a little bit longer after all.
Interesting post. I think of this often and usually after I leave my best friend's house and return to mine, because the contrast is huge. Her house is packed with framed photos of her family. Then I get home and mine is the complete opposite. In the past I have often wondered why. My walls are either bare or filled with original art. It used to bother me, but now I just notice the difference and move on.
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