Recently, I purposefully placed my camera in the center of my coffee table. The idea was that if I saw the camera again, perhaps I would pick it up, snap a shot. That I wouldn’t be afraid of documentation anymore. That, quite simply, I could just relearn how to capture a moment again.
This morning, Scone jumped onto the back of the couch and was staring out the window. I tried photographing this peacefulness, but the sun was too bright, and he ended up blurry and dark. Discouraged, I leaned back into the couch and thought: I’ll take a picture of something else later. And then I just looked at my space.
I thought about what this room once looked like and how it’s evolved over three years. The people who’ve sat here. The moments we’ve had. The people who lived here before me. How they spent a Saturday morning.
And I took a picture. Because I wanted to remember what this space looked like when it was just me living here.
In recent months, I’ve changed much about this room.
I bought an orange coffee table.
I fell in love with a circular carpet design.
I bought pillows that, for the life of me, will never sit right on a leather couch.
I’ve pulled the TV close, so I’m able to see my workouts from the dining room.
I didn’t touch a thing before taking this photograph. Afterwards, I thought Shoot… you can see the air freshener on the floor, the extra papers on the coffee table, the knitting bag from last night’s crafting session.
But this is just real life.
And this is what real life looks like to me on a quiet Saturday morning in January.