WHAT A CUTE PICTURE…
…WHEN DID WE TAKE IT?
When I quit teaching to spend more time at home with both of my kids and husband, I looked forward to the pleasures of quiet time, having leisure time to enjoy simple pleasures.
One of the first projects I wanted to undertake was putting piles of photographs into empty albums set aside in the corner of the office. I was excited to finally have time to go through photographs, putting them into the pages while recalling the fun we had had as Jamie and Justin were growing up.
I grabbed the first set of pictures on the top. I looked down at the photo in my hand…a picture of Jamie when she was ten years old. Without warning, tears welled up in my eyes.
For the picture of Jamie in my hand, we had set our camera to a shutter speed faster than anyone can see, 1/500th of a second. It ensured clear, sharp pictures without the blurring that happens when people are moving. Sure enough. This picture was sharp and clear. And the girl in the photo was precious…darling. But tears started fall into my lap as I realized that I had no memory of that day. I had no memory of being with the precious little girl in the photograph, one of the most important people in my life.
What was I going to do with the rest of the photos in the stack? Of course, they had to be filed away. I would not be able to destroy family photos. But what was the point? What was I going to do with a photo album filled with photos that didn’t bring back memories? How will I describe those pictures to my grandchildren 20 years in the future?
With the stack of photos in my hand, I realized that, like the black hole in outer space, my life had a major black hole of ten years that had fallen out of sight. Closing my eyes and trying to pull up memories from those years, I could only see myself sitting at the office desk late at night, tired, eyes drooping, grading spelling papers and editing student paragraphs.
I saw myself waking ten minutes before the 5:00 a.m. alarm clock every morning, dressing in the still, quiet house, eating toast with a cup of tea, and pulling out of the driveway by 6:30, one hour before everyone else in the house would wake. I remembered Friday nights, dragging my bag of papers to be graded into the house, putting my feet up on the coffee table, telling the family to call out for Pizza while I sat numb with exhaustion.
One thing was certain. There would be no pictures of family times, picnics, camping trips, hikes, or trips to Disneyland during those ten years. There hadn’t been time. I had filled our weekends with workshops, house cleaning, laundry, groceries, lesson plans, bulletin boards, and on and on, fitting just enough time with family into the schedule to keep track of music lessons and who had a band concert the next week.
Somehow, during those ten years my children grew up around me, but without me. Now I was holding pictures of them, but with no memory of where and why they had been taken. Instead, I sat recollecting memories of where I had been going and why–but memories without Jamie and Justin.
I couldn’t figure out how this had happened so easily and unexpectedly. Of all my life’s accomplishments, I took most pride in my ability to organize time efficiently. I could measure the time needed for nearly anything, slipping in and out of meetings, classes, and conferences with barely one or two “wasted minutes” on either side of the appointment. I learned to carry books with me to read while waiting in line. My school bag was always at my side with student papers to grade, one pencil, a blue pen, and a black pen.
Like most teachers, I had learned to stack time, like three dimensional tic-tac-toe. I could grade a science test while planning dinner in my head, listening to the kids talk with each other, and waiting for the doctor to call us. I could load the washing machine while yelling down the hall for Justin to do his chores in the middle of a conversation with Dad about what time my airplane was leaving next week, and thinking about the materials I needed to bring home from school to carry with me on the trip. No moment wasted.
Ten years of organized efficiency, conservation of time, and I found myself sitting on the floor with pictures of lost moments. I remembered back three years to the night my father died. In that split second, I realized how many questions I suddenly wanted to ask him, now that he was gone. I would never know why he started making marmalade. I will never be able to ask him where in the desert he planted the devil’s claw plants he needed for making Indian baskets. Did he really put the dormer windows in the cabin just for me? I will never know what he was most thankful for in his life. I had never taken the time to ask him. When the questions finally came to mind, he was no longer here.
I put the picture of Jamie back on the top of the stack of photos and set them on the shelf again where they had lain for the past two years. I couldn’t bear seeing a flood of unrecognized photos today. There no longer seemed to be any hurry to be organized.
Since that day…the day of the lost memories…I have been able to go back and read through journals I kept. Page after page contains the words, we have been so busy, lately. Busy, busy, life is hectic, I can’t wait to rest, I’ve gotten a lot accomplished today, busy, it sure will be nice to rest. I was shocked as these words became repetitive reminders of how unimportant busy seemed to be to me now…years of memories of time with two dear children now lost to me because I had managed to be so efficient.
My own mother had been right all those years. “Slow down, Jane. You’re trying to do too many things. Take it easy.” I offered her excuse after excuse, a string of I can’ts. She knew the truth. I can’ts were simply I didn’ts. She was truly right.
With all of our scientific cleverness, have we really improved upon the Indian method of recounting history and time related to the seasons or to the year of the great blizzard? Do we really know time better simply because we have created scientifically precise methods of measuring and manipulating it?
How do we know the value of one second if we don’t turn our back to the clock, close our eyes, and feel it? What does it matter that we can count billionths of seconds, if we can’t remember them? Just what does the value of a second mean to us if we don’t throw the clock away, lock eyes with a loved one, and live it?
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