The joy of fleeting, uncapturable moments

Last week, the morning sun did to our home what it only does in February and March. It fell on the glass windows of the building opposite and its reflection spotlighted our tiny, hexagonal, old-wood dining table.

The light poured through our balcony's safety nets and blooming bougainvillaea to decorate the wall with criss-cross patterns and the shadows of delicate petals.

I wanted to capture the moment, photograph it, and preserve the way this little thing lit up my day. But what gave me greater satisfaction in that moment was to pull my husband away from his work, point it out to him, and to watch him watch my thrilled face.

I've been thinking about such moments that can, in one sweeping shot fill you with joy about its existence but also sorrow about its fleetingness – the sorrow of already missing how you feel in the moment, while still in that moment!

The sorrow that perhaps drives our digital world's constant need to document everything at the very moment one sees/feels/hears/enjoys it.

Philosophers, thinkers and psychologists have pondered how quick blips of feelings can define us, and even fuel our ability to reason.

"Emotions are not reactions to the world. You are not a passive receiver of sensory input but an active constructor of your emotions."

-- Lisa Feldman Barrett, psychologist, writes in her book How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain

This got me thinking: if we are actively constructing our emotions, would it not be better to take these little moments in and allow our brains the time and space to build our sensations and give them meaning? How do we affect our brain's process when we force it instead to think about how to frame that perfect shot?

There is indeed joy in missing out (JOMO) on physically capturing every moment, as the philosopher Mojo (our very sassy but wise dog whose name anagrams as JOMO) shows me daily.

I sat down today and thought of all the small, fleeting, uncapturable things that meant a lot to me over the past few weeks. And I recollected a surprisingly long list:

*A clean kitchen counter, stovetop, and sink empty of dishes after hours of scrubbing.

*A stare-off between a real bull and the life-size sculptures of horses on a storefront.

*A full moon fully visible in a light blue sky at 7am.

*Rewatching an old show with a partner who didn’t exist in your life the first time you watched it.

*Clear blue skies and the sharp light of spring in bangalore.

*Seed pods from trees, pressed into the tar road below.

*A panic attack. A meltdown. A calm, steady embrace that instantly settles you.

*Buying your dog a new toy and seeing his eyes light up.

*Two lone trees on a concrete road, one blushing pink and the other a beaming yellow in a sea of grey.

*A full bookshelf, its history and oldness.

*Feeling every single cell come alive with that first sip of coffee in the morning.

*Attention. Just simple attention.

*Running alongside the rising sun that peeps at you in the small spaces between tall buildings.

*Staying in one place long enough to see lanky adolescent saplings take root and become big, shade-giving trees.

*The weighing scale showing a 0.5kg drop after plateauing for weeks. 

*Parents laughing hard at your childhood silliness, even three decades later.

*Stuck in traffic, feeling dreary but looking up to see clouds of all shapes and sizes frolicking across the skies. 

*Sitting on the couch. Doing absolutely nothing.