By David L. Johns 
I’m shopping for a camera to take on my trip to Honduras. Somewhere along the way, while planning this international jaunt, I convinced myself that I need a digital camera. It’s much smaller and will travel better than our 35 mm camera. It will take clearer images than the camera I have now. Besides, I can email vacation photos to anyone who sends me Viagra advertisements.
I don’t need a digital camera; I realize this. I just think I do. But, I’ll probably buy one anyway.
I have mixed feeling about toting a camera of any kind on this trip. I’m not afraid that it will be stolen. I’m not even afraid that, like I’ve done with a dozen umbrellas and hats, I’ll leave it on a plane.
I’m worried about what I’ll miss while “capturing memories.” It’s hard enough to experience all that is happening around me. It’s more difficult when I try to experience the world through a one-inch square, or even the enormous three-inch viewfinder of the camera I’m probably going to buy.
I do enjoy having something to look at after a trip and I even have moments of nostalgia when I’ll thumb through a couple dozen photographs. However, what usually happens is this: I look through the pictures immediately after they’re developed. I do this in the store parking lot. I pull out one or two to send to family, and throw away a couple blurry shots of my shoes. I stuff the rest into a musty antique trunk that is nearly overflowing with photos from two lifetimes.
Several years ago at the Cleveland Zoo, I watched someone take a picture of a family. Mom and dad were haranguing the children trying to rein them in for a pose. The kids were tired and wanted to ride the camel. The bellowing from this family was embarrassing to those at the zoo who were supposed to be the wild animals. However, on the count of three, there were six beautiful orthodontured smiles. After the camera clicked, the group dissolved back into chaos.
What do they remember when they look at that photo? Do they remember the public bedlam? Or, do they only recall the 1/500 of a second when all was serene?
What do we believe about images of our own past—our memory of it, or the photograph? How soon does the photograph replace our memory so that all that remains of our vacation, or our senior prom, or of our aunt Mabel is a 5x7 with a smudgy fingerprint in the corner? But how much would I have forgotten without a few snapshots through the years?
I’ve made up my mind to buy the camera and I’ll take plenty of pictures. But I’ll try to keep my eyes open and not squeeze the world into a three-inch box. It’s not what I stuff in the trunk when I get back that will be important, but what settles into my heart.
Have fun, be safe, and send me a postcard.
David
A blog about Being Somewhere
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Copyright 2007 by David L. Johns