Sedum (journaled here)
I’ve both taken and unearthed photographs of our yard and garden from today back through my children’s infancy, when there was no garden— only grass. It has been an interesting journey back through time. I find a photo of the garden with the first patio, or the tree that fell. A wall of phlox that is now part of a mix. I had forgotten that the Knot Garden was originally a long rectangle.
We take pictures to preserve a moment. To document an event. To record something important or amusing. To remember. To admire. To create beauty or art. You take them for yourself, or for the ones who come after so that they remember, admire and see the art or the moment that the photographer valued.
Poinsettia (journaled here)
Are we real without our memories? If the stories aren’t preserved, did they happen? What does a memory feel like? Is it a photograph or a dream? Is it a movie that I inhabit, or one that I watch? When I say I do not remember, perhaps I only mean, I do not know, or even I am not there.
Will I be able to tell when I shot these photos? Will it matter?