Take a picture, it’ll last longer.

That used to be an obnoxious playground retort we would hurl at each other back in the day to deflect an uncomfortable stare that lasted a few seconds too long.

But in the digital age, it’s become an almost instinctive reaction to all of the little moments – funny, sad, poignant or beautiful – that form the rich tapestry of our lives.

First, take a picture. Second, post it on social media with a clever caption and watch those likes start mounting up.  

And then, what was that last thing…?

Oh, yeah. Live the moment.

Except so often, after pausing to take steps one and two, the moment is gone.

Sure, we’ve captured it in pixelated form and consigned it to the cloud to live forever, but we’ve actually missed it.

Take a picture or it didn’t happen.

This isn’t just self-righteous pontification. I’m speaking to myself as much as anyone.

This point was driven home on the way to work this morning when I found myself driving down Kingfisher’s Main Street behind a truck carrying a giant plastic tank labeled “Non-potable Water.”  

No self-respecting Kingfisherite who’s lived through the 72-hour E. coli boil order would not see the hilarity of posting that picture on Facebook.

Gleefully, I reached for my phone, then growled in frustration at the dead screen.

In desperation, I cut my eyes to my laptop lying in the passenger seat and for five seconds plotted how I might have just enough time at the next stoplight to power it up, open the camera, turn the screen forward and…

Seriously, how pathetic is that?  

I wonder how much of my life I’m actually missing by wasting all that time cataloguing it in virtual images that I can fan out on social media to the approbation of my virtual friends.

I also wonder if our over-reliance on visual documentation is causing us to lose our ancestors’ ability to think, speak and write descriptively.  

In every one of Ken Burns’ amazing historical documentaries, I have been as much moved by the eloquent statements he’s culled from the letters, diaries and speeches of those who actually lived through whatever time period he’s depicting as I am by the powerful film footage.  

I’m talking about before people limited themselves tweets of 140 characters or less.

I can hear your argument now, and it’s a good one:

How can we possibly remember all those important moments without having the visual documentation literally at our fingertips?

But then I think about all those moments I will never forget that could not be captured in any digital photo.

Like the warm, vanilla-sweet smell of my newborn daughter when the delivery room nurse first laid her velvet cheek next to mine.

Or how my newborn son’s head swiveled immediately at the sound of his dad’s welcome, straining for his first glimpse of the face that belonged to that very familiar voice.

Or, the feel of my mother’s hand in mine, surprisingly solid and warm and reassuring, even as the essence of her misted away from me on a softly uttered sigh.

A picture is not always worth 1,000 words, but those moments are priceless.

Put down your phone and soak them in.