This morning, while I was filling my cup and looking out the window, I spotted our little hummingbird visitor dancing around and enjoying the sad little salvia plants.
I am still heartbroken about this year’s salvia options. They aren’t what I imagined when I planted them, and they certainly aren’t what I hoped I would be looking at by August.
Apparently, the hummingbird doesn’t care.
It danced from bloom to bloom, perfectly content with what was there.
In the background stood Stanley, quietly fishing in the puddle. The geese had already made their way up into the yard, settling into another Monday morning as though they had nowhere else they needed to be. And, by the way, they still haven’t left.
For just a second, I thought about grabbing my phone. But I knew what would happen.
By the time I reached for it, opened it, aimed it and tried to capture what I was seeing, the hummingbird would probably be gone. Stanley might move. The moment would become something I was trying to photograph instead of something I was actually experiencing.
So I didn’t.
There are probably people who know me who would question whether I actually believe this, but logically I know we don’t need a photograph of every moment.
This morning, I didn’t need one. I just stood at the window and watched. The hummingbird danced through the salvia. Stanley fished. The geese occupied the yard.
And I exhaled.
Not the kind of breath we consciously take because we think we should slow down. This was different. It was the kind that seems to happen all by itself when, for a moment, your body realizes there is nowhere else it needs to be.
Nothing outside that window needed anything from me.
I didn’t need to identify anything. I didn’t need to count anything. I didn’t need to capture anything. I didn’t even need to turn it into a story. I could simply watch.
Maybe that is another thing the puddle has been quietly teaching me. There is a difference between documenting a life and being present for one.
I love the photographs I’ve taken here. They help me remember things I might otherwise forget. They let me share Pinecone and Shelly, Stella and Stanley, the hummingbirds, the mallards, the geese and all the other visitors who have wandered through this little piece of the world.
But perhaps some moments are allowed to belong only to the person who was there.
No photograph. No proof.
Just a Monday morning, a cup being filled, a hummingbird dancing among imperfect salvia, Stanley standing in the water, and geese who apparently have decided to stay awhile.
And one long, complete exhale.
For today ask yourself:
When was the last time you let a beautiful moment happen without asking yourself to capture it?
Maybe some memories don’t need a photograph. Maybe being there was enough.
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