At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don’t need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens — that letting go — you let go because you can.
― Toni Morrison, Tar Baby

I appreciate (and, if truth be told, envy) the magnificent spread of holiday photos I see on social media and receive in Christmas cards. Some are artfully curated, family members and pets scrupulously arranged to create the best compositions. Some are gloriously candid shots with crying, red-faced kids, family members accidentally beheaded by amateur photographers (usually grandmas, like me), and rooms littered with remnants of wrapping paper, cookie crumbs, and beverage bottles. All are scrapbook-worthy photographic records.

And all are photographed by those charged (by other family members–or by themselves) with ensuring that these moments live for posterity. I had a brief stint as one of these family photographers when we bought our first camcorder in the 80s. It was a hulking monstrosity that you heaved upon your shoulder and struggled to balance, one that required weeks of arm and back workouts to strengthen the necessary muscles so that you could steady it enough to record videos actually worth watching. I recall standing against the wall with other amateur videographers during one of the girls’ elementary Christmas programs. Fifteen minutes into the program, my arms shook, and the camcorder wobbled precariously on my left shoulder, which visibly sagged inches lower than my right. Desperate, I realized that I couldn’t move without blocking another parent’s video path. Even worse, I couldn’t lower my camcorder, for I no longer had the strength to keep it from crashing to the floor. Sweating and breathing hard, I called on my former athletic training. I slowed my breathing, committed to the task at hand, and breathlessly chanted: You can do this. Fifteen more minutes. You can do this. Fifteen more minutes. . .

Needless to say, I failed on two fronts. First, the video itself was a disaster, blurry and jiggly enough to cause viewer motion sickness. Second, I missed my girls’ program. Oh, I was there, but I was so intent on taping the event that I couldn’t recall a single song sung or line recited. The whole ordeal was a bust, one I vowed never to repeat.

I wish that I’d taken the words of novelist Toni Morrison to heart earlier. I wish that I’d understood that [n]o record of an event needs to be kept and you don’t need someone to share it with or tell it to. I wish that I’d known how it’s really about letting go, about embracing the wisdom that [a]t some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. Like Morrison, the ancient Greek tragedian, Euripedes, understood that [e]nough is abundance to the wise. On that day in December as my girls stood on risers dressed in their Christmas best and sang carols with clear, sweet voices, it was more than enough to simply be there. Abundance filled the moment. And I missed it all.

Before I go further, a disclaimer: I’m convinced that there are those who can simultaneously photograph and be present in the moment. And I realize how much family and friends treasure their photographic records. After all, a scrapbook or iPhone filled with photos is a veritable feast for those hungry hearts who yearn to flip or scroll through visual memories. Author and host of the podcast, The Daily Stoic, Ryan Holiday expounds upon hungry hearts:

Everybody’s got a hungry heart – that’s true. But how we choose to feed that heart matters. It’s what determines the kind of person we end up being, what kind of trouble we’ll get into, and whether we’ll ever be full, whether we’ll ever really be still.

Holiday claims that how we choose to feed the heart matters and will determine whether we’ll ever be full and still. These are words worth considering. The desire to record our moments is just one type of hunger that either fills or fails to fill our hungry hearts. If we can’t ever feel truly full, can’t ever appreciate being still and present in a moment, this may, indeed, determine the kind of person we end up being.

I have no holiday photos that record the last few days I spent with my family. And I’m o.k. with this, for I understand myself well enough to know that I’m not–nor ever will be–one who can simultaneously photograph and be present. So though I still struggle–particularly as I cook and clean up the kitchen– I’m choosing to be present. I’m learning to let go of expectations that I record these moments as lovingly and beautifully as others do. I’m discovering that I often don’t even need to share these moments–precious as they are–with others. Because the moments themselves are splendidly enough.