I realized recently while doing something too embarrassing to put here (over 25? you probably get this) that I have very few pictures of myself. The few that I have are taken by friends in moments where I am almost always too sweaty, loud, silly, or excited to look like a normal human. The only times I ever take selfies are when I want someone far away to approve of my outfit.
I thought for a long time this was laziness. I could take more pictures, do more fun things, have more sharable times but the truth is I don’t want to. Somethings are mine. Some moments are not for the internet. They are not to be shared in pictures. Some stories are to be told for years and grow and change as the years pass without photographic evidence.
This summer I went to Stanley King and I wrote a little about the outcome in my last post. When I got home my plan was to write a long detailed blog of how my time was spent and what I did but I have decided not to. I am hoping the change that came from that experience is apparent to the people around me. I am choosing instead to hold tight to the day-to-day and let them be mine.
Most of the time I like words better than pictures anyway. I will probably never be a good member of my generation. Twitter will always beat instagram and blogs will always beat twitter. And I will never remember to take a picture of the sunset on my run, the snow in my window, or my friends on the beach.
I am remembering the overwhelm that comes with working where and how I do and I am breathing it in. I wrote this post because it’s been rambling around my head for a while and because it reminds me that there is life outside of these grey walls. I love this job.