I returned from Hawaii a couple months ago and sat down to write about it. I didn't get very far, and left the words to marinate in an untouched file. When I think about what motivates someone to write, the answers can vary greatly. For some, it's love, for others, it's pain. For many, it's the feeling of words bursting through the skin, with the frantic need to make sense of them on paper, like a puzzle. I have been writing more than I ever have these past couple months, but my thoughts are content with whispering back and forth, safely tucked between the pages of my journal. When I think of freeing them from their confines, I feel slightly indifferent. I have grown to savor the privacy of my life and the small world that I am building with great care. However, sharing thoughts and ideas with people is a matter of genuine and intimate connection with the world, and that is something that I crave and need both in my life, and my writing.
“Why do I write” is a question I asked myself recently. I usually only feel compelled to publish words when I have some inner turmoil that needs release. Also, when I crave mutual understanding and relatability. Lately, there has not been so much inner turmoil, the tortured artist vibe is no longer a driving force. Life has become slower, but I’m not necessarily moving any slower. If anything, things have become busier, more life-changing decisions are being made, and new places are being explored. I felt at a loss for words after Hawaii because I left there feeling immensely grateful for experiencing such a beautiful and peaceful place. Normally I might think to write about the dark hidden underbelly of a place, on top of its beauty. Hawaii definitely has its issues just like any other place, but my experience was so overwhelmingly peaceful and beautiful that I did not want to focus on the potential negatives. I wanted to bathe in that sunny serenity until Wyoming’s winter chilled my bones once again. So, I came back home and stared at my computer screen, and felt no words pushing to escape inside of me. Instead I daydreamed of beautiful flowers and sparkling waterfalls, not a touch fire beneath my skin, only turquoise blue, warm and agreeable water.
Thus, arises another “why” of writing - Beauty. Sometimes the beauty of something is so overwhelming, that one must release it onto paper to try and capture the beauty. I started and stopped photography because of this. I started photography because I felt the incessant need to capture and share the beauty of people and places, and I stopped photography because I realized that even the most skilled photographer cannot capture the warmth of a breeze, the feeling of a fluttering kiss, the salty sea air, nor the changing iridescence of a butterfly’s wing in motion. I still admire photography greatly, but I do not wish to take one moment away from my current experience to take a picture, for that is one less moment that I share with the rawest beauty of all. Sometimes I wish that I had the willpower to sacrifice the briefest moment just for a piece of beauty.
This slow life that I am talking about, this appreciation of beauty, is something that I have been mulling over quite often. I am watching the world and watching people and myself experience this world. I see many people moving so fast. The strange thing is, many fast people are not actually moving that fast at all, but their inner selves are. A person can travel to ten different countries in a year and at the end not experience any real shift in themselves. A person can also travel to one place in their life and have their entire perspective changed or enriched. The first person is one who perhaps moves through these places with a camera or phone as a barrier to the world. Or perhaps their mind is on to the next place, or worrying about the places they have not yet seen. The second person perhaps gets lost in the view outside a train’s window, exchanges names with the surrounding flora, and talks with the people who craft the food that they indulge in. What I mean to say is, it is possible to be the most well-traveled person, and never have traveled at all. The body has traveled, but not the mind, soul, nor heart.
One person can never have all the experiences life holds, never. The best option we have is to get the most out of the experiences that we do have, however many or few that is. This sentiment is freeing to me, because it unburdens people from the constant stream of pictures online that scream to the viewer, “You’re not doing enough!” It has led me towards a slower life that focuses on quality over quantity, presence over distraction.
All of these distractions of the present world leave me wondering what the future will be of the human experience. How much time do modern-day humans squander in our relatively short lives on earth? What I would describe as the biggest modern-day time suck would be the black hole of scrolling through social media. What would be time-sucks pre-technology? Reading a book, staring off at a horizon, drinking oneself numb? Nothing seems quite as mindless and detached as our modern-day comparison, but history also suggests that each generation feels like the newest one is bringing new “technology” that will destroy the world. Yet, this one objectively feels more severe, a different unknown beast. But what do I know?
What I do know is that time moving slowly is what I now strive for. I know that I can do a lot or a little amount of things and still experience each moment as slowly as the first dollop of honey from a patient spoon. Living slower extends one’s lifespan, at least mentally. Each moment holds infinite potential for limitless ideas, beautiful or poignant observations, and a kaleidoscope of sensory pleasure.
As I ask myself, “Why do I write?”, I think that the nuances may change over time, but the
core of it stays the same. I write to connect with the world, and simultaneously slow down my experience. By taking an hour or two to reflect on the smallest or largest experience, I am drawing out a moment and reveling in all of the pleasures or pain. This to me makes the experience a richer one, and enables it to expand my mind, soul, and heart. Each word that I write technically brings me closer to death given the passage of time, but for some reason death feels all the more far away and much less foreboding. For rich experiences and meaningful connections make inevitable death a welcome rest rather than an ensnaring end.
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