Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

Miss Dahlia with her great aunt Julie.

Every time I finish a creative project (usually writing) that I really care about, writing the last few lines—no matter how pedestrian or mundane—always brings tears to my eyes (either out of relief or joy or fear . . . or some similar combination).

The only thing I can really compare it to is meeting your own child for the first time. You just stare in awe at that brand new face. And continue to stare because it is almost impossible and incomprehensible that you, you of all people, somehow managed to get something right.

Okay, in reality, you didn’t do it on your own, and possibly you just happened to be distractedly doing something else when the miracle began. But in the end, you were a part of something truly incredible and well, important for once. And you can’t freaking believe it.

Last weekend, I got to see my great-nephew Harrison and my great-niece Dahlia for the first time. It’s so awesome to meet little tiny people and to realize that you likely knew them before and you are seeing them again at the beginning of the wild ride of mortality. We stare at babies because they are tiny packages of pure potential—raw, unrefined, and limitless. And we wonder who they will become, and how we can influence them for good, and whether or not they are going to spit up. Mostly we hope they are happy and can sense just how much we love them.