“Take a picture!” I said to Spence as we were sitting on the porch of our waterfront rental in Maine. It was our first morning, and I was sitting with my dog Jojo and wanted it recorded. He did so and we continued relaxing, but it made me think about this impulse to record every moment these days.

It’s odd to me that we have the impulse—and the ability—to photograph everything in our lives now. We took only a few family vacations when I was a kid, most travel being out of my family’s budget, and I’ve found a single photograph from those trips—me, my dad and my brother standing at some marker at a rest area (I think) and nothing around us for miles. It must have been Kansas considering the flat surroundings. My mom not even in the picture since she was the photographer and probably the one who suggested taking the photo. I barely remember these trips now, just a flash of memory of being with my cousins in El Paso, of hearing so much Spanish, of being car sick in the camper that my dad pulled with his truck. My mom told me that at one of the rest stops (maybe the one where we took the photo), I said I was not going any further. They could continue on, but I was staying right where I was. They all climbed into the vehicle and said, okay, see you later! And I sat at the picnic table and said bye!! They drove away, heading toward the exit, and I sat at the table watching them, unbothered. Then dad turned the vehicle around, drove back to me and said something along the lines of Get your ass in the car. So I did. I feel like I can remember this, but it may just be me imagining mom’s story.

A single photo taken during the drive to and from Texas. More were taken, of course, when we were with our family, but even then I’ve found only a few that remain. When my uncle Terry died recently, I dug through my boxes of photos and found only a handful from when he was a toddler, and even fewer from when he was an adult. Of course, his wife and kids would have had more images from their holidays and such. When I was at an internship in Pennsylvania in 1997, he picked me up in his semi-truck and gave me a ride back to our hometown to visit my family. Back then, I climbed into the rear of the truck and slept. It didn’t occur to me to take photos, even though I was studying photojournalism, and in Pennsylvania for a photo internship. I was working with a film camera, which likely drove my decision to put it aside. Processing, color correcting, printing—it was a lot of work. Today at that age, with an iPhone in hand, I would have taken selfies of me in the truck and Terry in the background. Photos of Terry driving, etc. And now that Terry is gone, it would be nice to have photos like that. But I still have the memory of the ride.

I have an odd photo of my dad, riding our indoor exercise bike in his robe, smoking a pipe, and looking over his left shoulder at the photographer and smirking. I don’t know if he was seriously riding the bike like this and my mom decided it was ridiculous enough for a photo, or whether he was clowning. Who rides an exercise bike in their robe? But there aren’t any before or after photos. Just this one.

I have a wonderful photo of my brother and his best friend from high school. His best friend is hamming it up for the camera and he’s got his arm around Gary and is pulling him into the photo and my brother has his face scrunched up laughing as he pulls away from his friend. Only a third of my brother’s face is seen. When I was considering this photo for his memorial, I couldn’t decide if it showed enough of him to use. His friend is the one who is fully seen. But it was the only image captured of this particular moment. I lamented that there wasn’t a series of photos taken of this moment, like we would and could do today, where we see the sequence of Gary pulling away laughing, maybe turning his body away totally and walking from the scene. Today, we could take enough photos in fast succession to make a little animation out of the moment. But then it was just mom’s cumbersome point and shoot camera with a flash, and when you pushed the shutter you didn’t know exactly what moment you were capturing. And who knew when you would see the photos; first you had to use up all the film. (I did use the photo in the memorial. I felt it captured the relationship so well, even if you could only see Gary a little bit.)

Recently, I was trying to capture an Eastern Phoebe in flight. She had her eggs in a nest on our porch, and when we came outside to sit, she would fly to our lamp post and perch. I brought out my brother’s expensive camera and expensive lens and waited for her to move. I chose the fastest shutter burst and when I sensed she was about to fly—SnapSnapSnapSnapSnapSnapSnap. I took a dozen photos in just a few seconds, capturing every move she made in that time. I did this a couple more times, and when it was quiet again, camera in my lap, I said to Spence, this is the opposite of the decisive moment. This is pointing the camera and capturing every moment that goes by. I am no Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Bresson is credited with coining the term the decisive moment. You wait for all the elements in a photo to come together and you snap the shutter at just the right time to capture that moment. The photo of his I most associate with this term is one of a man leaping over a puddle, foot just above water, beautiful reflection of the jumper and wonderful composition. Bresson used Leica film cameras, so there were no shutter bursts. Only the single shutter click. Timing mattered and he was a master.

Today it seems people videotape/photograph everything. How many videos have I seen on Tiktok that made me wonder why the person had a camera recording at this particular moment. People wear GoPros, have cameras running in their car, are taking video selfies, are ready to point their phone in the direction of any hint of kerfuffle. Sometimes this is for the best—evidence in a car accident, proof that the enraged interaction started with someone spouting racist bullshit, a truly unbelievable moment captured. It also feels like a self-imposed surveillance state. I remember years ago, when I was living in Florida, I was at a mall Christmas shopping and decided to take a break. I went to sit down on a bench and I missed, landing my ass straight on the floor. I don’t know how it happened, but I remembered—even then, pre-2008—thinking, wow, I hope there isn’t video evidence of this! Now it’s just as likely as not that there would be and it could be turned into a viral video without me even knowing. (Until someone recognized me and alerted me to the fact.)

I recently deactivated my Instagram and Facebook, after reading some awful news out of Philadelphia that some 8th graders had “weaponized social media” to target their teachers. They created fake Tiktok accounts using images they found on the teachers’ social media accounts, and slandered the teachers in awful ways. It bothered me so much that I decided to stop sharing my own content on the accounts, even though they are private (because nothing is really private when you share it online. How often have I explained this to students who shared something on their personal, private account that was then screenshot and shared more widely?). I have work accounts to use for my job, so I don’t need personal accounts. I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with social media—feeling like I want to share all the interesting moments of my life and then feeling like I’m being too solipsistic. A friend of mine recently told me about the incredible traveling he’d done and I asked him about photos. He said he didn’t take any, choosing to live in the moment. I was stunned and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I true practice in Zen meditation, really. No interruptions to grab a camera, pull out the phone. Just here, now—seeing.

I would find it too challenging to not take any photos, and he wasn’t suggesting others do so. But I like the idea of being more discerning. I currently have over 30,000 images on my phone. A handful I have “favorited” so they are in their own folder and I can look at them whenever I want. I am grateful for the images of my mom, dad, Gary, grandma, Kim…people who are gone and that I miss deeply. The photos show the date and time it was taken, a time capsule for wonderful moments with people I won’t see again.

Not using Instagram and Facebook to share my life in photos also reminds me how few people I have in my life to share photos with directly. I miss my mom and brother all the time, and it becomes more acute when I have a photo to share that doesn’t seem like everyone I know would want to see it. My mom and brother would ALWAYS want to see it. Whether it was a selfie, or some funny scene I found. At my request, Spence has taken photos of me in an outfit that I like, or a silly photo of me and my critters, and then I’ve paused and realized I don’t really have anyone to share it with. To share it widely seems to be saying Look At Me! Nothing wrong with that, but something I’m becoming less inclined to do as I try to keep my focus less on myself and more on the people and experiences around me. But my mom, she loved those texts because she was my mom, and no one saw me more clearly. She would critique the outfit, critique my haircut, critique how my skin looked—because she cared deeply about me how I existed in the world. And my brother, one of the last photos I sent to him a fews weeks before he died was a panoramic from the top of a mountain in Maine that had me making a ridiculous face on one side and then the incredible view all around. He responded pretty quickly about the magical view, and he responded even though he was already struggling at this point, fatigued and weak, though we thought it was from the treatment and he would eventually rebound. But that turned out not to be the case.

I suppose it’s a matter of balance. Putting the phone away when you are in conversation with a friend. Snapping a single photo and then putting the phone away. For me, sharing images directly with friends who might be most interested, rather than with everyone I’ve known for the past 15 years. Maybe the memory is more important than the photo sometimes. But also, the photo can capture the memory for the future. So prioritizing. But striving to stay in the moment whenever possible.

And also, doing whatever makes you happy. Photographing everything, photographing nothing—whatever you want. It’s not so serious, after all. Just enjoy.