Photographs and Letters

The way we share today. There’s so much out there. So we don’t bother to sift through the junk. Content to glance at photographs and read the 1, 2 status posts. A picture and a few words seem to be the only medium to get a story told.  A picture, without your thousand words.

Today there was a huge, bright yellow perched on a branch by my window. She was golden, or maybe the color of a daffodil.  She was magnificent I let out a tiny whisper, “oh my.” I wanted to take a photo but she was too far, too fast for my lens.

And then there’s this row of white flowering trees lining my road. I pass through the same path every day and three times already stopped and took a shot.  The trees are filled to the brim with flowers overpowering the leaves that are barely there. Different times on different days I try to capture the glory of trees that bear crisp white stars on silver branches. But I cannot fit the row in my frame and the colors are stark, not subtle and silver like I see on my road.

Then almost everyday since March, the breeze catches a dandelion, and a faint ball of white fuzz, the size of my fist, wafts swiftly by.    How do you take a snapshot of that?

There’s a temptation to take photographs of everything. I’m itching to tell you things. A cloud, 7 dogs playing outside with 20 chickens, the leaves that fall like rain.

Except that there are too many shots I miss. And I could only fit frames in seconds. And instead, moments drift. The dandelion passes swiftly. The bird flies away. The rows of flowering trees won’t tell me their secret in a shot.

And so I write these down instead. I write for me and for sharing a bit of the world that lives in me. Hoping that one day, I am bestowed the gift, lent the Genius, to capture moments in prose, in a thousand words. And that someone somewhere reads them. Without pictures.

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