kodak moment


    I had a camera once that could take pictures
    with everything in focus, from front to back,
    each detail crisp, sharp, and identifiable.
    I can’t do that with my own eyes, as

    I learned again this week, driving through
    Duke Forest, the variegated veil of fall flavors
    cascading down from the tree tops to street level.
    I pulled to the side of the road and gazed into

    one canyon of color, layers of gold and green,
    of umbers and ochres, shades of life and death,
    and I wished for my old camera to let me see
    all of them at once. Instead, I had to settle

    for my human view, choosing the near or
    the far or the in-betweens, a leafy lesson
    to remind me how hard it is to carry both
    dreams and memories, or hope and duty;

    that the journey to wholeness is less about
    seeing everything clearly than seeing
    clearly that everything has its season,
    its fleeting moment to be in plain view.



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