Each morning I wake up and open my eyes.
One looks to the future. One tries to remember the past.
The present, sandwiched between the two and probably resting somewhere around my nose, seems to take care of itself. It moves freely. Constantly. It goes to places it often shouldn't, pushing the envelope of experience that hangs us just on the edge of a safe world.
The present is a curious place, built of finished projects and incomplete journeys. It lingers with the visual echoes of captured moments; spinning ballerinas cheating time's normal passage with youth and a slow shutter speed.
Soccer players frozen in a heads-or-tails toss-up of competitive control.
A rainbow and a red tree, full of the vibrant, wet paint of light after a passing storm.
The present compels me to think about the two entities of time that sandwich it together.
Then and the thereafter.
Where we've been and where we're going. Each generation learning something new and wonderful, but hopefully not forgeting the road that helped get them there.
Hot two-a-day practices that pay off in the dark corner of the endzone with a touchdown catch over tight coverage.
Or the value that comes from dropping a ball in front of cheering fans. Making mistakes and not being crucified for them. Learning that there are holes to Wonderland, everywhere. Just let the given moment live, grab it by the horns and steer it - pulling a few imaginary Gs - to a welcome and unknown future.
Much like the perceived fluidity of movie film, we seem to exist on a series of individual photographs, separate, transient moments that our brain and heart convince us flow smoothly - one frame at a time.
An eye to the future.
And one to the past.
The present. It's always a gift.
And just in time for Christmas.
Matt Zimmerman's pictures of the year