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After watching the movie tonight and reading an entry in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kijjohnson's LJ, I got to thinking about that momentary rush of... what is it? Connection with something greater, communion with genius or something; how it's always momentary, and once experienced one always seeks it again, but doing the same thing doesn't always stimulate the same response, at least not for me. I need to have all the elements in place. So it's not easily repeatable, and when one stops getting the same emotional reward, one faces the prospect of losing interest in continuing to seek that something magical.
For me, this happens when motorcycling: Once in a while, for no apparent reason other than everything in the universe of my mind is aligned just so, I feel this surge of pleasure, and the world is brighter and smells fresher and I feel alive. When I was first riding, every ride was ripe with excitement and rife with danger; I would ride for hours on the most uncomfortable mount imaginable, heading nowhere. Now I find myself forgetting the joy of the ride and often just hop on to go somewhere and hop off when I'm there. Also when skywatching: When I was a kid, I could feel in touch with the holy so much more easily than now; now I need to keep scanning the skies past the "I've seen a blue star before" until I find that something which offers the reward. I need to remember to ride, say, out to Target not to buy something but to enjoy the sensation of moving.
I have found that patience is more difficult to summon now than it was when I was younger, because then everything was shiny and new. Now it's not just about the newness - which, itself, can be a reward - now it needs to be about the thing that really matters, the thing that woke my sense of the numinous when I first learned that I loved the thing at hand: That's still there, still shining from behind every color of star and within the surprise puffs of nebula that I discover when my patience holds; those fleeting glimpses of storm-cloud detail in the clouds of Jupiter or snow-caps on Mars; that haze of the Milky Way which resolves into millions of stars, at least in my mind's eye, when that I open that eye. It's all there, just as magical as ever: As is typical for so much about humans, I'm the thing in my own way most of the time.
I often forget the pleasure I feel once I make an engine work again, or that jolt of transcendence when I write the perfect sentence, or engage in the perfect class. I think that this forgetfulness is what drives us to stop seeking those perfect moments. Perhaps that's what it means to grow old: To lose the desire to seek those moments of magic. I'll call this lack of desire by it's true name, "death." It approaches us by inches, sneaks up on us hidden in the shadows of time and our own blindness.
I realize now that this is one of the things that made me so teary-while-smiling while I watched "The World's Fastest Indian" tonight. Burt Munro was like that, a man who never forgot the beauty and power in going fast that got him going as a kid. He seemed to possess that same sense in his 80's that he had when he bought his bike back in the 1920's. That's rare and beautiful.
Do me a favor and remember to do something today something that gives you joy.
Chris
kijjohnson's LJ, I got to thinking about that momentary rush of... what is it? Connection with something greater, communion with genius or something; how it's always momentary, and once experienced one always seeks it again, but doing the same thing doesn't always stimulate the same response, at least not for me. I need to have all the elements in place. So it's not easily repeatable, and when one stops getting the same emotional reward, one faces the prospect of losing interest in continuing to seek that something magical. For me, this happens when motorcycling: Once in a while, for no apparent reason other than everything in the universe of my mind is aligned just so, I feel this surge of pleasure, and the world is brighter and smells fresher and I feel alive. When I was first riding, every ride was ripe with excitement and rife with danger; I would ride for hours on the most uncomfortable mount imaginable, heading nowhere. Now I find myself forgetting the joy of the ride and often just hop on to go somewhere and hop off when I'm there. Also when skywatching: When I was a kid, I could feel in touch with the holy so much more easily than now; now I need to keep scanning the skies past the "I've seen a blue star before" until I find that something which offers the reward. I need to remember to ride, say, out to Target not to buy something but to enjoy the sensation of moving.
I have found that patience is more difficult to summon now than it was when I was younger, because then everything was shiny and new. Now it's not just about the newness - which, itself, can be a reward - now it needs to be about the thing that really matters, the thing that woke my sense of the numinous when I first learned that I loved the thing at hand: That's still there, still shining from behind every color of star and within the surprise puffs of nebula that I discover when my patience holds; those fleeting glimpses of storm-cloud detail in the clouds of Jupiter or snow-caps on Mars; that haze of the Milky Way which resolves into millions of stars, at least in my mind's eye, when that I open that eye. It's all there, just as magical as ever: As is typical for so much about humans, I'm the thing in my own way most of the time.
I often forget the pleasure I feel once I make an engine work again, or that jolt of transcendence when I write the perfect sentence, or engage in the perfect class. I think that this forgetfulness is what drives us to stop seeking those perfect moments. Perhaps that's what it means to grow old: To lose the desire to seek those moments of magic. I'll call this lack of desire by it's true name, "death." It approaches us by inches, sneaks up on us hidden in the shadows of time and our own blindness.
I realize now that this is one of the things that made me so teary-while-smiling while I watched "The World's Fastest Indian" tonight. Burt Munro was like that, a man who never forgot the beauty and power in going fast that got him going as a kid. He seemed to possess that same sense in his 80's that he had when he bought his bike back in the 1920's. That's rare and beautiful.
Do me a favor and remember to do something today something that gives you joy.
Chris
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- That's so true. Why is it that humans, who seek comfort, also seek to reduce their joy, discovery, and excitement? Is comfort antithetical to the great experiences, or is it just that those aren't necessary for comfort? Hm. We end up causing ourselves discomfort and dissatisfaction after denying ourselves those things for long enough, and perhaps it's at those moments that we reject comfort and make changes in our lives.
This might be why humans have our 7-year cycles. Silly humans.
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Glad to see you on a deep path.
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Yet however much I want to have adventures, to stave off the mental and physical calcification, these desires are always overwhelmed by the ever-growing need to avoid risk and to behave with prudence. There are things that you and I have done in the last 6 or 7 years that I would *never* do today.
Man, I got nothin'. But I loved this post.
*Most of my favorite books are children's or young adult books. Why is this?
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I've thought some about this. Why does the need to avoid risk grow? I know that our bones mend slower now than they did when we were sixteen, and I know that we are also 30 years closer to retirement, when money in the bank will be a good thing; but that's no excuse not to go for an all-night drive once in a while. Sure we'll be sleepy the next day, but we'll have seen the mountains under moonlight.
Maybe what needs to happen as we grow older is not risk avoidance so much as risk assessment.
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"Live as if you might not have a tomorrow, but plan as if you will live for a thousand years." Someone said something like that once, and I like it in this context.
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Do you see how insidious this all is? I watch you and your life with a kind of desperation, to try to learn what being brave and adventurous *looks like.*
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I hear you about this: "I've already driven in the mountains at night, and if I go now I'll just be sleepy tomorrow, and for what? Something I've already ticked off my list?" Risk assessment again: Is driving in the mountains tonight worth being tired tomorrow?
My theory is that different personality types should handle questions like this different ways. If you're the foolhardy type, then when you're offered an option like that, you maybe should take the low-risk option, because you'll be doing the Dumb Thing often enough anyway, no need to strain your luck. And if you're the risk-averse type, then you should maybe force yourself to say yes to something new or strange once a week. I was so amazingly pleased for you about the geocaching and getting outside because I knew how big a deal that was on so many levels.
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Re: "one always seeks it again, but doing the same thing doesn't always stimulate the same response" - Epiphanies/divine communions/etc. are unique. Rarely does one experience it the same way twice, and they happen for no apparent reason: They can't be forced. We can't expect it to happen. I know that people have different ways to help them achieve a state of open-ness, and I listed several of my own above; being open increases the chances of experiencing the divine, but it doesn't guarantee it. This is kind of like the FL notion of creating a clearing. To experience that magical sensation, we simply need to become open to it, accept it if it comes, and accept when it doesn't.
In short: Live in the moment. (This as opposed to doing things that provide temporary gratification but bring grief and pain later; living vs. seeking comfort.) Living in the moment is radically different than living for the moment. A lifetime of living for the moment can result in selfish, destructive behavior. After all, if all you have is the moment, why try to improve the world or struggle to better yourself for a tomorrow that you might never see? However, living in the moment means that we make the most out of the short time we have here.
I find this a challenge: to enjoy each moment for what it is, not what I want it to be, and at the same time, understand that each moment follows the other.
Hugs,
Chris
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Two things I love are good food and a good show ("show" covers anything from a movie to live theater to a concert). But they rarely seem quite the same...quite as good...the second time around.
**sigh**
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Your thoughts also reminded me of my mantra "A trip/vacation begins the moment you step out your front door, not when you arrive at your destination." I usually use that comment to encourage someone to take the train rather than plane on a trip...but it seems apropos in general in response to your comments.
Thanks for a nice thought-provoking post.
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Pooch and I try to take long driving trips at least every other year