Photographs and Memories

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but what's a memory worth?

I've been asking myself that question a lot lately, as I work on Project Life--creating a scrapbook-like page with weekly photos of Ellie's day-to-day life. I'm documenting everything from her first smile to the less-than-glamorous spit-ups and diaper changes. I have at least one photo from each day of her life, 1500 total since she was born four months ago. She most likely recognized the camera lens before my face.

I probably have about 200 photos from my entire childhood. My mom documented the "big" moments, and the events I can't remember on my own are spread out for me in brown albums, 4 x 6 cropped memories of my first birthday and first Christmas--real moments captured in light, onto film, mail-ordered, and hand-delivered.

Then there are the memories with no photos, like one from the year I turned 15. I stayed at my cousin, Dani's, house late in the summer, and she and I would escape to the tall grass at the back of her parents' property to talk about boys and other "grown up" things. In my mind, there's an image of her sitting on the ground in front of the tall, brown grass, the sun setting behind her. She was literally glowing. Strands of her long, black hair fluttered in the wind, catching the sunlight. It was the moment we stopped playing Barbies and climbing up to the treehouse. She was a year older than me, and I watched her become a beautiful woman in that moment, knowing that I was changing in the same way. I remember it as the exact second I knew I wasn't a child any more. I can step into that memory any time and relive it. Even now I feel the warmth of the sun, the cool breeze warning of winter. I can look up and see the gray sky and down to the blade of grass I'm twirling in my hands.

What if I had a photo of that memory? Would it be as beautiful in pixels? Evoke the same feeling framed? I don't think so.

Yesterday, I was playing with Ellie, and she grabbed my hair, pulled my face close to hers, giggled, and said, "Mama!!" for the first time. My instinct was to run for the video camera, but I didn't. I stopped, smiled down at her, and took it all in--her baby grin, her dimple, her expectant look, the sea of baby blankets stretching out on either side of her, the tulle curtains behind her diffusing the light as it fell on her face. (In my brain), I saved it, backed it up, and made it my wallpaper for the next few weeks.

So what does it all mean? Am I going to stop taking photos and put Project Life aside for now? No way! I love my scrapbooking time, and I want Ellie to have photos of the moments she can't remember in vivid detail. I want her to see how much I love her and love to watch her grow week by week. But it does mean that I'll probably set the camera down more often and enjoy my baby in real life.

And I certainly won't regret the times when I miss that "one perfect shot," because I know my memory of it will be just as beautiful if not more so.