For days, I’ve been searching for a passage from a cherished childhood book, but it eluded me until now. The imagery of a nurturing figure organizing a child’s thoughts—smoothing out the unpleasant and highlighting the delightful—has always resonated with me. It’s ironic, really, that I now find myself in the role of my own guardian, tasked with tending to my mind’s chaos. Without a caregiver to aid me, I must confront the messy bits of life alone.
In recent times, social media has sparked intense debates over how individuals curate their lives, often showcasing only the more glamorous aspects. I admit, I too shy away from sharing unflattering images or scenes of disarray, despite the fact that they fill my daily life. It’s easy to accuse me of presenting an overly polished perspective, but I think there’s more to it.
J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, published in 1911, predates platforms like Instagram and Facebook, highlighting a long-standing human tendency to share life’s most beautiful moments. We elevate these experiences, allowing ourselves to bask in their brilliance, as life can feel overwhelming if we dwell too long on its darker corners. We capture and celebrate those precious gems, hoping to recreate them in our daily existence.
Recently, during a ballet class, my daughter’s teacher filled the room with bubbles as Judy Garland’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” played softly. Watching my little girl leap and dance among the bubbles brought a rush of emotion. Tears streamed down my face, though I couldn’t tell if they were from joy or sorrow. Most likely, they were tinged with sadness. While my daughter reveled in the moment, I found myself lost in a cascade of memories of my mother, who suffered a life-altering brain bleed at the age of 68.
In my mind, my mother is still vibrant and full of life, her youthful image forever etched during her days as a performer in the theater. I long for her to share in the joys of her granddaughter’s life, and I ache for the moments that can never be reclaimed.
Time is relentless, slipping away even as I write these words. Each tick of the clock reminds me of loss, loss, loss, unless I choose to embrace the beautiful moments that defy time’s grip. When we take photographs and celebrate those captured instances of happiness, we are fighting against the inevitable passage of time. Cynics may belittle this pursuit, but I believe it’s rooted in a noble effort to cherish what we have.
I have a deep appreciation for photographs, especially those that capture striking moments. They hold just as much honesty as the candid shots of everyday chaos that are gaining popularity. Would we criticize an author for polishing their work before publication? No, we admire the final product.
I often find myself wishing for an internal caretaker to soothe my troubled thoughts. I grapple with the reality of an ailing mother and the steady rhythm of loss over the fleeting hours between when my daughter falls asleep and when she wakes up, a little older and a little more independent each day. While I remind myself that the best is yet to come, I know that time is not on my side.
In the quiet of night, I envision a world where my mother could share her wisdom with her granddaughter, where my daughter can experience the joy of being loved by her grandmother. Yet, the reality is that those moments are lost to time.
It’s in these reflections that I recognize the need for light—both literal and metaphorical. I need the comforting glow of memories and the beautiful images that remind me of love and joy. As my child embarks on her own adventures in life, I will be there, ready to greet her with warmth when she returns.
This article first appeared on May 12, 2015.