Advertising executive, Fred Barnard said, a picture is worth a thousand words, I say, words can paint a thousand pictures.

            This morning when Winnie and I set off on our jaunt along the lake, I recognized that my first instinct, not a minute into our walk, was the urge to photograph the moment, to try to capture it to add to the rolling updates and notifications punctuating cups of coffee, exercise routines and morning commutes. I stopped, my hand hovering over my back pocket before letting it drop back to my side, while at the same time releasing a long, slow breath. On the inhale I smelled sweetness, the sweetness of damp earth and wet needles, fallen leaves beginning their slow return to the soil. I noted the relief, the way my shoulders dropped into place down my spine, my lungs filled again with sweetness and my jaw relaxed. My feet found their way on the familiar path, landing with a lightness that comes from throwing expectations to the notably windless forest, expectations to capture magic in order to prove it is real.

            I vacuumed in countless images through my retinas and sent them to neurons that I don’t understand for processing and at the same time ruminated on all that I cannot capture with my iPhone. The sound of the leaves underneath my green rubber boots, swishing, not yet crunching—the carpet of fallen oranges and yellows is new and so it is soft, fluttery, light. Shadows play a game of hide and seek with the rays of sunshine, the newly naked branches aiding the soft light. The water of the lake, so still, so crystal clear yet at the same time a clarity that is broken by the still-life reflections of blue sky and vibrant mountainsides. I hold my breath involuntarily and let it out only as I turn my face upwards and close my eyes. This, I think, this I cannot capture for Instagram. The sights and sounds and smells become a part of me, my cells, my memories, not a half a second in a scroll through a feed. 

            A picture can’t capture the mushrooms, more than I’ve ever noticed in all the years I’ve lived here, every few feet along the path. Some of them are slimy, dark brown, gelatinous blobs, others mimic the tans, oranges, and deep purples of the leaves, with sharp, ruffled edges, their stems twisted and leaning, heavy with the weight of their own bodies beckoning them back towards the earth. A picture can’t capture the way Winnie runs twenty feet ahead and then turns back to look at me, ears slightly perked, eyes quizzical until she is content that I am following and returns her nose to the trail moving easily and with purpose, every step bouncing with pure, unadulterated joy. I have never seen such joy as is bound up in that little creature!

            A picture can’t capture the sound of the apple, plucked fresh from the tree as I sink my teeth into its perfect crispness—just cool enough, but not too cold to hurt my teeth. My jaws work, first through the flesh and then the thicker skin, textures teasing my tongue, sweet-tart liquid escaping in tiny rivulets down my throat and seeping, just a bit, to wet my lips—a jolt of life, nourishing and reassuring.

            These are the moments I live for, the moments that make me feel whole and wholly alive. When I share these moments, I share so they can become a part of you, too, your imagination, your memories, your cells. I cannot do that with a picture, but I can do it with words.

            I’ve never minced words when it comes to how I feel about the necessary evil of social media. I am not convinced of how necessary, but especially with the news coverage as of late, I am convinced of the evil. I want to share with you, not mindless chatter, a barely conscious scroll, but something of substance, part of myself, half an hour of my morning, half an hour of quiet renewal.