Cameras Down. Eyes Up.

"A picture's worth a thousand words." - but think of whole conversations we have missed while trying to document so much of our lives through photos and videos.  Perhaps thousands of other words could be added if only the scene were viewed in its 360º entirety, rather than merely through a small glass screen.

Take, for example, a child attempting his or her first steps.  Of course, we want to record those initial, unstable, toddling moments.  What can NOT be seen are the faces around us - the tears of joy, mixed with those that fall from the incredulity of how quickly time has elapsed.  It is nearly impossible to derive full appreciation for these spontaneous occasions when one is behind the lens of a camera.

Prior to writing this, I scrolled through years of my own photographs, challenging myself to recollect what had precipitated these captured images, as well as what may have occurred following that all-too-familiar click of the built-in camera residing inside my phone.  What came to light was that, while I may have recalled why that particular photo seemed essential, I likely had no idea what was taking place AROUND me or ABOVE me - only in front of me.

Years ago, while on our annual summer vacation with friends, children in tow, we took our families to the sea-shelling mecca of Sanibel, Florida.  Upon completing research of the area, we learned that the ideal time to search for big, beautiful conch shells was during low tide, which allows for access to numerous tide pools plus the ability to venture much further out into the ocean and still only be submerged up to our waists.

My friend, Amy, and I consulted the schedule, studying which of the two daily low tides would be most advantageous for our quest, and made the decision to conquer the one at 4:30 AM the following morning while our families remained immersed in slumber.

"Morning" arrived much too soon, our alarms unapologetically jolting us from our dreams of sand and sun. Groggily, armed with flashlights, shovels, and pails, Amy and I quietly convened outside of our respective rooms and began our trek to the beach in search of the mother lode of all seashells.

Led through the blanketing darkness by the thin beams emanating from our lanterns, we were filled with eager anticipation and were certain that we would likely have both the beach, as well as a prime sea shelling opportunity, to ourselves - considering the obscene hour in which our adventure was to commence.

As we emerged from the path, lined on each side by wisps of tall grass, we could see specks of light along the beach, in addition to luminosity bobbing up and down just above the water's surface.  We realized that we were not alone!  In fact, what we had imagined was going to be low-tide-sea-shell-seeking-for-two, was in reality, not as covert an operation as we had believed.  Other vacationers had clearly done their research, too!

Although this was no longer a duet of shelling activity, we found a camaraderie among these other beach goers, all of us realizing that our common bond was the willingness to be awakened before the sun for the same purpose.

Moments after arriving, we noticed that flashlights were rapidly being snuffed out, and people were looking and pointing towards the sky.  Lifting our eyes from the tide pools we believed were holding the treasures we had come to seek at this almost unthinkable hour of the morning, Amy and I were treated to something the likes of which neither of us had experienced before or since.

Glowing spheres, traveling across the sky, their silver tails following close behind, lit up the raven firmament like streaks of metallic paint on a black canvas.  The meteor shower to which we bore witness minimized anything that was transpiring, or even existing beneath it.

With breathlessness and disbelief, Amy and I, while never averting our eyes from Mother Nature's incredulous display, wondered how we would preserve or share this, seemingly, once-in-a-lifetime view.

The dilemma we faced:

* Should we attempt to take pictures/videos?

* Do we run back and wake our sleeping families to come join us?

* If we do, and by the time everyone threw on clothes and we all returned to the beach,            would the heavens still be awash in streaks of light?

* If we go back to the rooms, we would have to look at the ground, using our flashlights, thus    missing nature's performance.

* Would it be selfish NOT to, at least, give them the option of joining us?

* If we stayed at the beach, watching the sky, how would we ever describe to them what we    had just seen?

The solution upon which we settled:

Amy and I remained on the darkened beach, our eyes aimed at the sky, simply immersed in the wonder of the multiple explosions and trails of light sailing above us over the glistening water.

We lived in those moments, just the two of us, awestruck by the dancing meteors.  It is something that belongs to just Amy and me - something indescribable that could never have been re-created by the most skilled photographer or by the best camera money could buy.

When Mother Nature finally rested in the wee hours of that morning, it seemed that we had forgotten about the tide pools that had been holding our prizes or about walking out into the ocean, submerged to our waists, in search of the ultimate conch shell.

In lieu of acquiring "riches" from the ocean, Amy and I brought home valuables of a different kind:  Memories.  We allowed ourselves to "live in the moment", taking in those precious minutes beneath a decorated sky, drinking in the silence, the sea air, and the scent of the beach.  

In place of seashells, we had found a treasure of a different kind - by putting the camera down and keeping our eyes, along with the rest of our senses, up.

 © Cre8ive Writes, LLC  2022