While I was in Santo Domingo last week visiting my love and meeting his family, we hit the streets one day to explore the Cuidad Colonial. This is the oldest part of the city--in fact, the first city established by the Spanish explorers in the fifteenth century. It was a delightful day, despite the rain that started to fall not long after we left the house, and we walked hand in hand and talked all afternoon.
My carino takes many pictures. When he was here in the States, he always had his camera or iPod with him and snapped photos regularly and randomly. Watching his process was an interesting experience for me because I have in the last few years turned into one of those photographers always looking for the perfect artistic shot to capture my moments.
Armed with my limited photography knowledge, I'd agonize over the lighting and texture and make mental notes about which shots I would later adjust. The result is a collection of interesting and beautiful photographs. Yet, I also noticed--especially on my visit to Spain last summer--that I was spending more and more time looking for the right photo opportunity and less time soaking in the ambiance of life around me.
He does not do that. He looks around him, decides he likes a scene, pulls out the camera, and clicks. That's all there is to it. It's simple.
That day, we each took a photo of one of the buildings along the way.
As I've thought about this aspect of my creative life, I've seen it also at work in many other areas as well. I have spent a lot of time agonizing over decisions, polling my loved ones for their insight and advice. In the process, I have lost a lot a sleep and respect for myself and done more than enough emotional head bashing when the plans have gone awry.
It's a little frightening to think of how much life I've lost in the process. Years ago, when my marriage showed it's first signs of crumbling, I remember struggling with the "what if's" that strangled my heart. Jesus' words about marriage and divorce echoed in my head, and I worried over how my family would react to the news. I chose to stick it through.
Looking back at it now, I still shake my head a little. The abuse I endured, the time I lost, and the damage done to my soul and sense of self stand in stark contrast to the love I experience in this moment. Despite years of therapy, a lot of prayer, and more than enough introspection, I still find myself in the odd moment when I question the core of my being.
I spent most of last week sick with a cold, and I worried extensively about the fact that my love would acquire it from me. (My ex would actually accuse me of intentionally infecting him whenever he was sick--whether or not I ever showed symptoms.) The night the coughing started sent me into a private panic. By the time we reached our last night together, we did have a scuffle. We also later sat with his head in my lap, and I ran my fingers through his hair. He said to me, "Darling, I love you." That phrase was a salve for my soul that calmed me and reminded me that real love is not unkind and does not behave unseemingly.
Right there, I was well aware that this is life. We hacked together and dripped fluids in an array of colors and slept very little. And we loved each other through each moment. These are moments I would have missed in a previous incarnation of myself. I would have missed out on the love we shared along with our coughs and sneezes because I would have been too worried about capturing the right moment--the perfect ending to our visit together.
I've said all this to point out the fact that we miss out on much of life in a zeal to always do the right thing--to capture and organize the perfect moments. Like my carefully organized photographs, a perfect, beautiful life may be pretty to look at, but it's created and carved more for the approval and adoration of other people.
I don't need that anymore. As I've slowly allowed myself to let go of this, I'm finding myself more open to the smaller, imperfect, and sometimes downright damning moments of my life. There's a rugged beauty there, and I feel like I'm finally finding my freedom there--the freedom to truly experience and live.
At the end of the road, I'm not so sure it matters how beautiful it looks on the outside. The experience is what counts. Last week, my love and I walked the same path, took in the same sights, and recorded on a digital memory card the same experience. The photos may look a little different, but his was far less painful to capture. Our lives work much the same way.
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