A Picture is Worth 1000 Words

My mom still lives in the house where I spent my childhood, about 3 hours south of my current mountain home.  I went to visit her last weekend, and while helping her move some things around I came across a large cardboard box of family photos.  The label was in my dad’s handwriting, and he was obviously the one who bundled the photos together in various stacks, held together by rubber bands.  I say this because it is clear the goal was to be neat, not to put the photos in any semblance of order.  The stacks consisted of a hodgepodge of baby pictures, graduation pictures, photos of the house as it was being built, snapshots of my brother and I with our various family dogs, photos of grandparents, wedding shots, family vacation documentation…you get the idea.

I took a few pictures to keep for myself, and when I got home and pulled them out again it was striking which ones I chose.  They are all from when I was very young, probably first grade and earlier.  Riding a pony, playing in the snow, holding a giant zucchini from our first garden, sitting in my dad’s lap…  My hair was wild and long and sunbleached and my smile was big.  The photos I didn’t take, the ones from later stages of my life, with a series of bad hair style choices and eyes hidden from view, made me laugh but they also made me sad.  What a bunch of years spent being insecure, losing sight of what is important, making choices because I thought I should.  What I should have been doing all along was growing zucchini, riding ponies, and playing in the snow.

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~ by lamacanyon on 10 July 2011.

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