Today I was watching a film when the sudden bright light through the window made me squint. I couldn’t see the TV. It was annoying. I turned to the side, intent on pulling the blinds, when I paused. It was sunny. Then, the rain started. At first it was a few drops, and then it was like a symphony of water rebounding from plastic pipes and wooden floors, sparkling in the sunlight. I grabbed my camera.
The photos I ended up taking were not very good. My photos are usually amateurish, taken with a certain haste on the spur of the moment whenever something randomly and unexpectedly beautiful prods me into action. But it didn’t really matter. I didn’t manage to capture the glint of light on the edge of the raindrops, or the exact shade of the flowers; I certainly didn’t capture the haunting smell of woodsmoke in the air. But I did get wet. I actually danced in the rain. I didn’t care that my jeans were dripping rain into my shoes, or that the dye in my hair was running, because I could actually feel spring, and it was a little bit like a drug.
Technology is impressive. Technology is overwhelming. But as much as we love it, as much as we rely on it and are endlessly encouraged to use it, it can’t capture the full spectrum of experience. It’s flat; its conversation is a one-way affair. Memory is a muted reflection - sometimes bright, often evocative, but never, ever the same as being in that moment. So experience it while you can. Stop. Think. Stop thinking. Just open yourself to it in every way you can. Breathe it in.