Photo by Taylor Jacobs on Unsplash

The Smallest Sort of Journey

This is a wonderful day. I’ve never seen this one before.

Maya Angelou

We’ve all been listening and reading about how to best handle the quarantine so there is little reason for me to duplicate the advice you’ve already read. What you must do depends upon your circumstance. Your days could be busy with kids. Or you could be living with a partner or living alone. Working, out of work or retired. In any case, I suspect you are striving to create order. 

 

A lot of people are experiencing an underlying sadness. This is normal. We have lost the life we were living a mere few weeks ago. Some people are way past sad and are feeling desperate. If you know a person who is, help them. Provide them resources. We are in this together – epidemiologically entwined.

We don’t like taking orders, but we have been given no choice. We can’t buy our way out of this. Our wings have been clipped, and we are grounded.

 

If this lying low continues for months, who knows how well we will do. But history tells us that there is no limit to our creativity when it comes to establishing new ways to support ourselves and each other.

 

And, ok… I am a going to sneak in some advice, but not what you expect:

 

  • If you are shamed by everyone taking cooking classes and making bread, don’t be.
  • If you didn’t jump out of bed at 7:30, complete four tasks before lunch, walk 3 miles, contact 4 friends and take an online foreign language lesson, it’s ok.
  • If your “to do” list is arm’s length, stop adding to it. Subtract instead and prioritize to give your brain a break. Only in the US would people insist on being super productive during a health emergency. (I am not suggesting you slack off, I am asking you to be reasonable.)
  • If you are in the middle of a book and bored, put it down and find another.
  • If tomorrow gets away from you, maybe you needed the day off.

 

Staying sane

A couple of weeks ago I heard that government agencies might close open-air nurseries because they weren’t essential. Considering it is spring, I thought it was a bad idea. What better way to shelter-in place than to dig into the dirt to raise vegetables and flowers?

 

I did go to the local nursery, and I felt less guilty after seeing the check-out person behind a large plexi-glass shield. Bottom line the soil is in the pots, the plants planted, the fertilizer schedule established, and so my deck will be a visual reminder that nothing is frozen in time.

 

This too will pass

Earlier this week I read the Book of Life’s article “On Confinement” (included in this post), which reminded me of one of my favorite movies, Smoke, starring Harvey Keitel. It was a 1995 Wayne Wang film about the owner of a tobacco shop who went across the street every morning at 8am to take a picture of his shop. And every morning the picture was different, of course.

 

Keitel’s world didn’t stand still. Nor does yours or mine now.

 

To prove it, I decided to photograph my deck every day at noon. When the quarantine is lifted I will have documented my journey thru this pandemic – if I am lucky enough to remain well.   

 

So why not join Harvey and me? Become curious. Monitor yourself and the world around you. Go for a walk and photograph the same thing every day at the same time.

 

How about a phone shot of the sky from the same place/same time, or the same bench in the park? Once a day too much? Photograph a deciduous tree every week until it has lost its leaves this fall. Or snap a pic of a favorite tree at 5:30 each evening – until there is no available light.

 

Taking a photo too much? Then pick one of the above and consciously observe it with the camera in your mind – every day.

 

Make finding the change your medicine.

 

And don’t forget to relax your jaw!

ON CONFINEMENT

 

At some point in the 1650s, the French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal jotted down one of the most counterintuitive aphorisms of all time: ‘The sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he cannot stay quietly in his room.’

 

Really? Surely having to stay quietly in one’s room must be the beginning of a particularly evolved kind of psychological torture? What could be more opposed to the human spirit than to have to inhabit four walls when, potentially, there would be a whole planet to explore?

 

And yet Pascal’s idea usefully challenges one of our most cherished beliefs: that we must always go to new places in order to feel and discover new and worthwhile things. What if, in fact, there were already a treasury inside us? What if we had within our own brains already accumulated a sufficient number of awe-inspiring, calming and interesting experiences to last us ten lifetimes? What if our real problem was not so much that we are not allowed to go anywhere  – but that we don’t know how to make the most of what is already to hand?

 

Being confined at home gives us a range of curious benefits. The first is an encouragement to think. Whatever we like to believe, few of us do much of the solitary original bold kind of thinking that can restore our spirits and move our lives ahead. The new ideas we might stumble upon if we did travel more ambitiously around our minds while lying on the sofa could threaten our mental status quo. An original thought might, for example, alienate us from what people around us think of as normal. Or it might herald a realisation that we’ve been pursuing the wrong approach to an important issue in our lives, perhaps for a long time. If we took a given new idea seriously, we might have to abandon a relationship, leave a job, ditch a friend, apologise to someone, rethink our sexuality or break a habit. 

 

But a period of quiet thinking in our room creates an occasion when the mind can order and understand itself.  Fears, resentments and hopes become easier to name; we grow less scared of the contents of our own minds – and less resentful, calmer and clearer about our direction. We start, in faltering steps, to know ourselves slightly better. 

 

Another thing we can do in our own rooms is to return to travels we have already taken. This is not a fashionable idea. Most of the time, we are given powerful encouragement to engineer new kinds of travel experiences. The idea of making a big deal of revisiting a journey in memory sounds a little strange – or simply sad. This is an enormous pity. We are hugely careless curators of our own pasts. We push the important scenes that have happened to us at the back of the cupboard of our minds and don’t particularly expect to see them ever again. 

 

But what if we were to alter the hierarchy of prestige a little and argue that regular immersion in our travel memories could be a critical part of what can sustain and console us – and not least, is perhaps the cheapest and most flexible form of entertainment. We should think it almost as prestigious to sit at home and reflect on a trip we once took to an island with our imaginations as to trek to the island with our cumbersome bodies.

 

In our neglect of our memories, we are spoilt children, who squeeze only a portion of the pleasure from experiences and then toss them aside to seek new thrills. Part of why we feel the need for so many new experiences may simply be that we are so bad at absorbing the ones we have had.

 

To help us focus more on our memories, we need nothing technical. We certainly don’t need a camera. There is a camera in our minds already: it is always on, it takes everything we’ve ever seen. Huge chunks of experience are still there in our heads, intact, and vivid, just waiting for us to ask ourselves leading questions like: ‘where did we go after we landed?’ or ‘what was the first breakfast like?’ Our experiences have not disappeared, just because they are no longer unfolding right in front of our eyes. We can remain in touch with so much of what made them pleasurable simply through the art of evocation. We talk endlessly of virtual reality. Yet we don’t need gadgets. We have the finest virtual reality machines already in our own heads. We can – right now – shut our eyes and travel into, and linger amongst, the very best and most consoling and life-enhancing bits of our pasts.

 

(…) 

 

Let’s turn to another Frenchman with a comparable underlying philosophy. In the spring of 1790, a twenty-seven-year-old writer called Xavier de Maistre locked himself at home and decided to study the wonders and beauty of what lay closest to him, entitling the account of what he had seen A Journey Round My Room.

 

The book is a charming shaggy dog story. De Maistre locks his door and changes into a pair of pink and blue pyjamas. Without the need for luggage, he ‘travels’ to the sofa, the largest piece of furniture in the room, which he looks at it through fresh eyes and appreciates anew. He admires the elegance of its feet and remembers the pleasant hours he has spent cradled in its cushions, dreaming of love and professional success. From his sofa, de Maistre spies his bed. Once again, from a traveller’s vantage point, he learns to appreciate this complex piece of furniture. He feels grateful for the nights he has spent in it and takes pride that his sheets almost match his pyjamas. ‘I advise every man who can to get himself pink and white bedlinen,’ he writes, for these are colours to induce calm and pleasant reveries in the fragile sleeper.

 

However playful, de Maistre’s work springs from a profound and suggestive insight: that the pleasure we derive from journeys is perhaps dependent more on the mindset with which we travel than on the destination we travel to. If only we could apply a travelling mindset to our own rooms and immediate neighbourhoods, we might find these places becoming no less interesting than foreign lands. What then is a travelling mindset? Receptivity, appreciation and gratitude might be its chief characteristics. And, crucially, this mindset doesn’t need to wait for a faraway journey to be deployed. 

 

A walk is the smallest sort of journey we can ever undertake. It stands in relation to a typical holiday as a bonsai tree does to a forest. But even if it is only an eight-minute interlude around the block or a few moments in a nearby park, a walk is already a journey in which many of the grander themes of travel are present. 

 

We might, on such a walk, catch sight of a flower. It is extremely rare properly to delight in flowers when one can at any point take off to another continent. There are so many larger, grander things to be concerned about than these small delicately-sculpted fragile manifestations of nature. However, it is rare to be left entirely indifferent by flowers when the world has narrowed dramatically and there is global sadness in the air. Flowers no longer seem like a petty distraction from a mighty destiny, no longer an insult to ambition, but a genuine pleasure amidst a litany of troubles, an invitation to bracket anxieties, a small resting place for hope in a sea of difficulties. 

 

Or we might, on a local walk, spot a small animal: a duck or a hedgehog. Its life goes on utterly oblivious to ours. It is entirely devoted to its own purposes. The habits of its species have not changed for centuries. We may be looking intently at it but it feels not the slightest curiosity about who we are; from its point of view, we are absorbed into the immense blankness of unknowable, incomprehensible things. A duck will take a piece of bread as gladly from a criminal as from a high-court judge; from a billionaire as from a bankrupt felon; our individuality is suspended and, on certain days, that may be an enormous relief.

 

On our walk around the block, themes we’d lost touch with – childhood, an odd dream we had recently, a friend we haven’t seen for years, a big task we had always told ourselves we’d undertake – float into attention. In physical terms, we’re hardly going any distance at all, but we’re crossing acres of mental territory. A short while later, we’re back at home once again. No one has missed us, or perhaps even noticed that we’ve been out. Yet we are subtly different: a slightly more complete, more visionary, courageous and imaginative version of the person we knew how to be before we wisely went out a modest journey.

 

We will – one day – recover our freedoms. The world will be ours to roam in once more. But during periods of confinement, aside from the obvious inconveniences, we might come to cherish some of what is granted to us when we lose our customary liberties. It cannot be a coincidence that many of the world’s greatest thinkers have spent unusual amounts of time alone in their rooms. Silence gives us an opportunity to appreciate a great deal of what we generally see without ever properly noticing; and to understand what we have felt but not yet adequately processed. 

 

We have not only been locked away; we have also been granted the privilege of being able to travel around a range of unfamiliar, sometimes daunting but essentially wondrous inner continents.

 

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