"It can wait until tomorrow."
We've all said it. We've all thought it.
We all have waited for tomorrow...or much later.
Most of the time, it probably turns out to be never.
Waiting until tomorrow is not a good idea when it comes to photography. In photography, not only is there no tomorrow, there is no "in a few seconds" There's only now, and you only grab hold of it or you don't. You capture it or you don't.
I think photographers are a bit obsessive about living in the moment. Sometimes we can be a bit obsessive about capturing the moment, rather than living it, but that's another story that can wait until tomorrow. (See what I did there?)
In my previous marketing career, I used to drive down to Firespring in Lincoln, Nebraska every month to visit my fellow cronies. I'd pass through a lot of open country, a familiar site for all Midwesterners.
When I drive, I tend to gaze back and forth and I always have my camera with me. Side note: If a UFO is ever within my view, you can count on the fact that I'm ready for it.
I spotted a barn just off the road. I see dozens of barns along the way, but it was obvious that something was special about this one. Freshly piled with blizzard snow, this barn looked like it barely withstood the impact of it.
The scene revealed vulnerability.
Yet it symbolized strength and a desire to keep holding on.
I had no snow gear, but I had my camera, so I pulled over and decided to make a go of it.
I trudged about 100 feet through foot-deep snow (with my shoes and jeans on). I started snapping away, covering all the interesting angles of this barn. I swear I could hear it creaking as it fought to stay alive.
Looking back, it is quite possible that merely three boards were holding up the barn.
The single-digit temperature turned my fingers into icicles. I could feel snowflakes squishing in my shoes. I thought the slight breeze would be this barn's demise, but somehow it held on as if to reward me for keeping it company.
I ran back to the car to unthaw and drove away to my final destination.
I was not going to let this picture slip through my frozen fingers.
I took a different route on my way home to see new things, but I wondered about that snowy friend.
A month later on my next trip to Lincoln, I thought I'd pay a visit, even if it was a simple drive-by.
As I approached the scene, I remembered just a month ago what it looked like. I could see the barn and envision the snow. I could feel the cold moving through my fingers and toes.
There was no field of snow, and the barn was oddly absent from the landscape.
It must have fallen down. I drove closer to see what remained of the barn in pieces, and I even thought about how it could make an interesting picture as well since I had seen it in its last days just a month ago.
I was stunned to see that there were no remains of the barn. No trace of it whatsoever. It was as if it melted away with the snow.
I knew at that very moment that I had a unique picture that was no longer possible because I did not give myself tomorrow.
Despite the obstacles and inconvenience, today might be the only opportunity.
This photography lesson now represents an embedded part of who I am today.
