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a night at the Boulevard, watching the Olympics. photo by Erin Rufledt

There are times of life, I am convinced, that are conducive to different art forms. There are long, rooted sorts of seasons that are like contemplative novels, others are better suited by poppy dance songs, self-deprecating cartoons, or haikus.

Today, I decided that this is a snapshot season. Not only does my moving-every-week rhythm have the same choppy, spontaneous quality to it of a random photo album; actually, my life is just beautiful and quirky in the way that sets up the best photos like a winning volleyball spike. How many times a day do I wish I could focus, blink my eyes like a camera’s shutter, and wind up with the image before me in an album?

It’s funny that I say this nearly two months after returning from the city many people consider to be the most lovely, charming city in the world, don’t you think? The thing is, though, that I see my hometown and all its characters differently now than I ever did. Oh, Kansas City! Rich in color, texture, full of cowtown charm!

Just now, I’m wondering if my urge to snapshot these things is deeper than just the prettiness of everything. Life is all full of change, everywhere I look. My close friends are getting hitched so fast the marrieds are now outnumbering the singles. Some have moved away; I plan to. Meanwhile, my family is getting ready to sell the house my sister and I grew up in the suburbs, and the houseful of ladies I have called my own is breaking up. To prepare for this double-whammy move, I’m clearing out old clothes and ratty kitchen gear by the boxful. This process is extra-pressured because I’m also working up towards a season of transient farm work in the French countryside, starting in the spring if all goes well.

Friday afternoon, I sat outside a Crossroads storefront with two of my dearest friends. We lounged in vintage chairs and couches, feet propped up next to a cow’s skull. The sun lit us enthusiastically from low in the sky, as if preparing itself for its own TGIF night on the town. Behind us, in the store, were a dozen local farmers selling their produce; to our right rose downtown Kansas City. It was a simple moment, but it was thick with the substance of place and friendship.

Can’t I just capture some of these moments? Can I take this precious time with those I treasure and put them into tiny form, Polly-Pockets or holograms to someday reproduce this? For whatever reason: Nope. I can’t take even a paper-thin slice of this and develop it for another day. Even real photographs, on thick, matte paper can’t bring this back.

Carpe diem it is, then. Not just for the sake of “living it up.” I guess that while I am tempted to hoard these times like a million vacations photos, I suppose doing so would trivialize them in the same way. A moment lived well is dear because it doesn’t come back.

So let’s throw out the Hulu and the Netflix, set the alarm for good and early in the morning. Let’s dine together, walk together, help each other pack and move. Do that thing where you make drinks to sip during a movie, then get so wrapped up in conversation over the cooking of the popcorn that you end up plopped in the living room all evening, movie forgotten. Linger in the kitchen, seated on the countertops; talk through your toothbrush about your day’s triumphs. Because it’s the last of this.