I always have traveled with a camera throughout my life, but I

In the twilight between the old world and the new, there stands a bridge built of light and memory. Upon that bridge walks Guy Laliberté, the dreamer who once spun joy upon the earth through his Cirque du Soleil, and later soared among the stars. His words—“I always have traveled with a camera throughout my life, but I always had my old 35mm film camera. When I was training to go into space, the only equipment there was a digital camera. I went through a fast-track class on Earth. It actually was fun, though I'm basically a dinosaur with computers.”—speak not merely of cameras and technology, but of the eternal dance between change and wonder, between the past we cherish and the future we must embrace.

In this quote lies a gentle humility, the kind that only those who have truly lived can know. The 35mm film camera is more than an object—it is a symbol of patience, of craft, of the days when each photograph was a meditation, and every click of the shutter carried the weight of permanence. To Laliberté, it was a faithful companion through the tapestry of life, capturing moments not for consumption, but for contemplation. Yet when destiny called him beyond the sky, he found that the world had shifted; the tools of vision had transformed from the tactile to the digital. The digital camera, sleek and swift, demanded that he shed the skin of habit and don the garb of the new age.

And so, the artist who once commanded circuses on earth became a student again—a student of technology, of change itself. There is humility in his laughter when he calls himself a “dinosaur with computers.” It is not the laughter of ignorance, but of wisdom. For he knows that the heart of art and discovery lies not in mastery of tools, but in the courage to learn anew. He stands as a symbol of those who refuse to be left behind by time, who step into the unknown not with fear, but with curiosity.

History offers us many such spirits. Consider the great painter Leonardo da Vinci, who began his life sketching on parchment but ended it dreaming of machines that could fly. Or John Glenn, the astronaut who, in his later years, returned to space aboard the shuttle Discovery at seventy-seven years old—a man who had first touched the heavens in an era of switches and levers, now surrounded by the pulse of computers. Like Laliberté, they too bridged epochs, carrying with them the wisdom of the old while embracing the challenge of the new.

The true message in Laliberté’s words is this: that evolution is not the enemy of authenticity. We must not cling to the past as a relic, but as a root. The tools may change—the brush becomes a lens, the lens becomes a sensor—but the artist’s purpose endures. Whether through film or digital pixels, through parchment or hologram, humanity still seeks to capture the fleeting beauty of existence. The form transforms, but the fire remains.

To those who hear this teaching, take heart: do not fear being a dinosaur in a digital age. The dinosaur was mighty once, and in the heart of every giant lies a lesson of endurance. The world will continue to change faster than your hands can grasp, but your spirit must remain supple, your curiosity alive. Let each new challenge—each piece of technology, each new era—be a classroom, not a battlefield. Laugh at your stumbles, delight in your discoveries, and remember that wisdom is not measured in fluency with machines, but in willingness to grow.

Thus, let this truth be passed down: the one who adapts without losing the soul of their craft becomes timeless. Like Laliberté with his camera, may you walk with one foot in memory and one in possibility. Cherish your old tools, but welcome the new instruments that life offers you. For the universe itself expands, and those who seek wonder must expand with it. In the end, whether on Earth or among the stars, it is not the device in your hand that captures beauty—it is the eye, the heart, and the courage to see.