Greetings, my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

Friday is here!

This week absolutely flew by, and a thought came to me while I was standing in the shower. Yes, the shower. Apparently, this is where all of my best ideas decide to appear. Either that or the universe knows I can’t run away while I’m covered in shampoo.

Anyway.

This morning I found myself thinking about memories.

Not making memories.

Capturing them.

How many of you remember your parents or grandparents pulling out the photo albums?

No, no. I don’t mean opening the photos app on your phone.

I mean actual photo albums.

The kind that sat on coffee tables. The kind you could hold in your hands. The kind that smelled faintly of dust, paper, and time.

And how many of you remember those old slide projectors and movie projectors?

My grandfather had one, and I absolutely loved it.

He would pull out the slides and the movies, and we would all gather around while he proudly shared those moments with everyone. There was something magical about hearing the hum of the machine, seeing the click of the slides changing, and listening to the stories that accompanied every single photograph.

The photographs were wonderful, but the stories were the real treasure.

What happened to us?

Seriously. What happened?

Somewhere along the way, we stopped sharing our lives and started performing them.

Now we have filters, algorithms, influencers, engagement statistics, followers, advertisers, and enough social media platforms to make a person’s head spin.

Want politics? Go to social media.

Want arguments? Go to social media.

Want advertisements? Go to social media.

Want complete strangers telling you why you’re wrong about absolutely everything? Go to social media.

I digress.

The point is that we seem to have forgotten something important.

Life isn’t content.

Life is life.

Then, while I was standing there thinking about all of this, a song popped into my head.

“There’s a stain on my notebook where your coffee cup was …”

If you know, you know.

And suddenly I found myself wondering why we spend so much time trying to hide the evidence that we’ve actually lived.

Who cares if there is a coffee stain on the notebook?

Who cares if the kitchen is messy?

Who cares if the dog’s toys are scattered across the floor?

Who cares if your hair isn’t perfect?

Who cares if your walls need painting?

Who cares if you haven’t lost the weight you wanted to lose?

Take the damned photograph anyway.

Because one day that coffee stain won’t just be a coffee stain.

It will be a memory.

One day, you’ll look at that photograph and remember the smell of coffee, the conversation you were having, the song playing in the background, and the people who were there with you.

And that’s what this is really about.

Because after losing Mom and after Ronnie’s accident, I have come to understand something.

Life is happening right now.

Not when you have more money.

Not when you lose ten pounds.

Not when you’ve finished decorating the house.

Not when everything is finally perfect.

Now.

Yesterday, Ronnie looked at me and said, “I’m bored. Let’s walk around Costco this weekend or something.”

And I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Well, maybe a little because it was funny.

But mostly because it hit me that we spend so much time waiting for extraordinary moments that we overlook the ordinary ones.

Paris is wonderful.

Rome is wonderful.

But so is Costco.

So is the mall.

So is the bookstore.

So is a cup of coffee on the patio while the birds argue with one another.

These are the moments that become our lives.

That is why I am taking the camera with me when I travel.

I am taking the iPad.

I am taking the keyboard.

I may even take a journal.

I want the photographs.

I want the stories.

I want the seashells.

I want the laughter.

I want the memories.

I want all of it.

And, yes, Vickie and Roy, if you’re reading this, consider yourselves warned. I am absolutely taking photographs, and I make no apologies for it.

And to my dear husband, Ronnie, I have a little announcement of my own.

I will continue taking photographs of you whenever I please.

I find you to be the most handsome man I know. I love your smile, I love your eyes, and I fully intend to show you off to the world.

You have been warned as well.

Honestly, at this point, everyone in my life should simply assume that if you know me, there is a very good chance I am going to take your picture.

Resistance is futile.

Speaking of memories, can we please talk about all the ways we can create them?

Dance in the kitchen.

Sing into a hairbrush.

Build a blanket fort.

Start a scrapbook.

Keep a journal.

Roll the windows down and sing terribly.

Go for a drive.

Watch the sunset.

Visit the museum.

Walk through the bookstore.

Take the scenic route.

Feed the birds.

Dance in the grocery store when your favorite song comes on.

Take photographs of your pets.

Take photographs of your spouse.

Take photographs of your children.

Take photographs of yourself.

Yes, yourself.

As most of you know by now, I work from home.

The funny thing about working from home is that it can become very easy to accidentally isolate yourself. You wake up, walk a few feet to your desk, answer emails, take calls, finish your work, and suddenly realize you’ve spent the entire day inside the same four walls.

That means we have to be intentional.

We have to come alive anyway.

Talk to people.

Join a group.

Start a group.

Share your life.

Laugh.

Tell stories.

Celebrate victories.

Support one another.

Build friendships.

Make memories there, too.

Trust me when I say that I know exactly how lonely it can become.

I once worked in a place where people barely spoke to one another for more than a year and a half.

It almost broke me.

Now I work in a place where people actually talk to one another. We laugh. We share stories. We celebrate victories, offer encouragement, and remind one another that there are real human beings on the other side of the screen.

I’m even part of a fun little Friday group.

Every week, we post photographs, tell stories, joke around, and share little pieces of our lives.

Those moments matter.

Those are memories, too.

You don’t have to work in the same building to build a community.

You just have to decide to show up.

Children have known this secret forever.

They don’t care whether they’re singing off-key into a hairbrush or dancing around the living room in their socks.

They’re having fun.

Perhaps we should try that.

Maybe we need more flash mobs.

Maybe we need more dancing.

Maybe we need more silliness.

Maybe we need more laughter.

Maybe we need more joy.

Maybe we need to stop performing and start celebrating.

That is why you will never see me trying to become a brand.

People have told me for years that I should write a book, and perhaps one day I will.

But I don’t want to become a carefully constructed image.

I don’t want to become a product.

I want to be a person.

I want to share my life, my adventures, my grief, my joy, my photographs, my stories, and my memories.

I want to write because I have something to say, not because I have something to sell.

So blogging it is.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and we’ll simply go wherever the day takes us.

Perhaps we’ll wander through Costco.

Perhaps we’ll stop for coffee.

Perhaps we’ll walk through a bookstore.

Perhaps we’ll discover something entirely unexpected.

Or perhaps I’ll simply sit out on the patio with a cup of coffee while the birds chatter away, arguing about whatever it is birds argue about.

And maybe I’ll spill a drop of coffee on the notebook.

If I do, I think I’ll leave it there.

After all, someday it will become part of the story.

Until next time, stay feral, dark, and bright, my lovelies.