What you had and Lost

In Christopher Nolan's film The Odyssey, there’s a moment when Odysseus played by Matt Damon, encounters the Sirens’ song—songs that lure sailors to their deaths. Odysseus wants to hear the entire song, but instructs his men to fill their ears with wax and to tie him to the mast of his ship so that he’s unable to harm himself while they sail past the Sirens. In the film, Odysseus is driven to near madness when he is confronted with the power of their songs. Once the ship has passed the point of danger, Odysseus is somewhat restored; one of the men under his command asks him about the enchanted song. And he replied,

“It told you what you most want is what you most can’t have…

and what you most can’t have…is what you already had and lost”

The line, when spoken in the film, is powerful because it touches everyone who’s lost something they value. The impact of that scene continues to linger with me weeks after seeing the film.

Some of us have lost what we valued by accident or had something stolen from us; some have lost out on opportunities. There are also those who, by their own actions, threw away what they had and deeply regretted it.

There’s also a feeling of loss that comes with the understanding that you can return home, but home will never be the same. The treasure you stored there breaks down and becomes something else. I worry about losing memories of those treasures. Minutes and moments with the people you care about will never return. This becomes real to me when I look at photos of my children, when their smiles were wider and their eyes were filled with wonder at the sight of fire trucks, airplanes, and animals.

The thought of me losing a hard drive full of photos produces a visceral sense of angst, fear, and anxiety. Not because a loss of photos equates to a loss of the experience. A loss of photos is the loss of a readily available gateway to the past. An opportunity to see my family, the places I’ve traveled to, and the person I used to be. All of my good photos have emotions attached to them.  I have already lost one set of photos from a great trip I took two years ago after an ill-thought-out push of a delete button.

I decided this week that I needed to start printing my digital photos and archive them. I need the security of knowing I don’t have to place my hope in technology with built-in planned obsolescence. Each time I uploaded a photo to a local photo lab, I felt better. Primarily, my photos serve as evidence that I was present in those moments: I didn’t miss the birthdays and celebrations, travels, date nights, or time spent in the garden; after all, I took the photos. I need to remind myself of this.

Life will not leave you unscathed by loss. Mourning what you already had and lost is something we will all need to face. But we need to have symbols and reminders of the gifts we once had. Have the wisdom to appreciate what you have in the present and get good at taking good photographs. Print your photos, archive them, and keep them close to remind you that your moments were real.