We walked together under a blanket of heavy clouds. Our strides synchronized and our footsteps fell silent. In lieu of words, we unleashed unspoken goodbyes. The kind that warrant sandbags. The kind you don’t forget.
There was no daylight. There was no time. There was no money. There was no sadness. There was no thought. There was no one else.
There was only this moment. And within it, we were finally content. We were free. We were completely and totally free.
From a child’s point of view, the world is an exciting and amazing place. Enthusiasm and curiosity abound. Possibility is inherent. Nearly everything a child encounters is big and fresh and interesting and worthy of exclamation. They are greedy for knowledge and ask the most honest questions.
Somewhere along the way, though, for reasons we can’t explain, some of us lose that earnest innocence. We eventually grow up and assume the roles of mature adults. Burdened by responsibilities and weighted with impossibility, we become reluctant cogs in an unforgiving machine that marches toward progress. A house, a car, paid two weeks and a 401k.
In this moment, however, as I bask in the sight of my son joyously jumping through the pulse of the rhythmic sea, I realize we’re both enamored by the same immeasurable body. Our eyes fall on the same curious horizon. Our toes meet with the same icy water. This fleeting instant — shared between me, my son and the infinite ocean — is a reminder that there are still things in this world worthy of amazement. This moment is a reminder that innocence and awestruck enthusiasm are alive and well. You just have to know where to look and how to find them.
Sometimes I daydream about having a job that’s far removed from technology. A job that’s miles away from a computer screen. A job where I make tangible objects with my own two hands. Something artisanal. Something that benefits people in hyperlocal, extremely direct ways. Something more than pushing pixels.
Working in the digital sphere has it’s benefits, and on most days I enjoy it, but there is something impending to me about dealing in “ones and zeros.” Even after I’ve made something beautiful, it feels inferior to something handcrafted out of physical matter. Something you can hold or feel. Sometimes my life’s work feels like an apparition.
Maybe someday I’ll quit the pixels in pursuit of truly analog existence. Maybe someday I’ll own that bait shop in a sleepy beach town.
Reminders are everywhere. They’re in anniversaries and vibrant memories, but also in the slightest passing moment. They’re in scents and familiar flavors. They’re in melodies and mirrors. Sometimes we bury them deep away, locked out for protection. But most times they’re right in front of our eyes, waiting yearning to be noticed.
Be careful. If you blink, you just might miss one.
There is something special about the friendships we establish as children. These bonds can endure time and distance, and remain in tact for a lifetime. Of the relatively small group I would consider to be close friends, the majority were made before I hit my teenage years. It will likely be similar for my son (pictured, right), who will start school later this summer and begin building his own life-long friendships.
Editor’s Note: I take a lot of photos, but don’t share them very often. I’m not on Instagram or whatever network the kids are using these days. Moving forward, on Friday afternoons, I’m going to post my favorite photo taken during the previous week. I hope you enjoy them.
I love ferris wheels. Whenever I see one, I’m drawn to take a photo of it and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the juxtaposition with the sky. Maybe it’s the happiness that occurs in the separate compartments. Probably a bit of both. This is the latest in my collection of ferris wheel photos.