When I was a girl, I imagined my life a movie.
In fact, I have a few distinct memories of moments in which I felt very present to the experience of being watched.
This makes me sound crazy. Paranoid. Egotistical.
I know.
But, nonetheless, every once in a while I’d be walking down the street with a friend or engaged in a song and dance with my brother, and suddenly sense an observer.
I’d look around. Nobody was there.
Over time, I resolved this to be an inexplicable sensation I labeled, “My life in pictures.”
Now, as an observant adult, as a mindful lifer, as a humbled human being awed by her children, terrified by her own mortality…I find I am a member of the audience, instead; with one greasy hand inside the popcorn box and the other gripping the side of the aisle seat wondering…
How will it all end?
Meanwhile, I’m also the excited, but cautious cinematographer.
Struck breathless by extraordinarily poignant scenes
Obsessed with capturing light
and angles
Wondering all the time if other people can see what I see…
If other people feel the love and the loss inside a half-eaten cupcake
Or the extraordinary sadness of a broken plate
I sometimes watch my husband chase the children and know that once there was someone who watched me.
Someone is still watching.
A critic, a fan, or just a curious spectator of my life in pictures.
