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 Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| Facebook likes to show me posts from a group that is all about local nostalgia and often highlights photos of my hometown from years past. Sometimes, I look at these photos full of long-gone landmarks and owner-operated markets and am immediately immersed in my childhood. I curse time and change, scoff at what they call progress and declare that everything was perfect, they’ve stolen my childhood and destroyed all that was good. I bemoan the ugly landscape that today’s youth must endure and wish they could have all those great experiences that we had as children - Woolworth’s lunch counter, buying penny candy and comic books at the newsagent - all the magic they missed. But then there are the older photos of the town square from fifty or a hundred years earlier, with structures that were gone or changed by the time I was born. And I guess there were old people then that didn't envy my childhood but told stories of the town as they knew it, the childhood memories that were special to them - the trolley, the fountain in the middle of town, the ice man and the tinker. Everyone has a soft spot for their childhood home and wishes things could go back to the way they were. Except for those unpaved muddy streets full of horse doo-doo. I’ll bet they were glad when someone invented asphalt. |
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