Though I am grateful for so many things in my life, one virtuous emotion I have felt little of lately is peacefulness. Even when things are quiet, I hear an internal hum of restless activity. This chronic sensation of speed, pressure, and productivity is heavy and sticky.
I say yes easily and probably move too much. Sometimes I feel my life depends on making a deadline or taking on another project. This is fantasy and bad fantasy at that. Life would go on if I slept through the day. Life would go on if my computer wouldn't boot.
Though I carry this world of worry and reminders wherever I go, I am surrounded by peacefulness. The dust on the moulding and the bare wires that silently feed the bulb on the wall do not move or hurry. The creak of the hinge on Caspian's door and the guy lines on the dead spider's web out the window do not know how many tasks are stacked for tomorrow. The problem is not a lack of peacefulness, it's my inattention to seeing peace.
A February a few years ago in Fairbanks on my bike, I saw a woman standing beside her car on the shoulder of Chena Ridge. It was 9 am and the sun had just begun to glow in the southeast. She had stopped her rush and was standing in the dry cold Boreal morning, taking pictures of sunrise. When I got to my office, I told my friend Allison about the pictures, and asked if she thought having a camera all the time in our pockets makes us notice more of less of the beauty around us. She said it helped her notice more and that she now looked for truth in her dog, child, or ski boot that she hadn't thought to before.
Clearly, our devices can take us away from peace, but they can sometimes help us see it. I do see peace in some of the pictures and videos I've taken. Sometimes it's peace I intentionally tried to net with my megapixels. Other times, it's peace that crept in without consent. Here are a few (feel free to add your own).
I say yes easily and probably move too much. Sometimes I feel my life depends on making a deadline or taking on another project. This is fantasy and bad fantasy at that. Life would go on if I slept through the day. Life would go on if my computer wouldn't boot.
Though I carry this world of worry and reminders wherever I go, I am surrounded by peacefulness. The dust on the moulding and the bare wires that silently feed the bulb on the wall do not move or hurry. The creak of the hinge on Caspian's door and the guy lines on the dead spider's web out the window do not know how many tasks are stacked for tomorrow. The problem is not a lack of peacefulness, it's my inattention to seeing peace.
A February a few years ago in Fairbanks on my bike, I saw a woman standing beside her car on the shoulder of Chena Ridge. It was 9 am and the sun had just begun to glow in the southeast. She had stopped her rush and was standing in the dry cold Boreal morning, taking pictures of sunrise. When I got to my office, I told my friend Allison about the pictures, and asked if she thought having a camera all the time in our pockets makes us notice more of less of the beauty around us. She said it helped her notice more and that she now looked for truth in her dog, child, or ski boot that she hadn't thought to before.
Clearly, our devices can take us away from peace, but they can sometimes help us see it. I do see peace in some of the pictures and videos I've taken. Sometimes it's peace I intentionally tried to net with my megapixels. Other times, it's peace that crept in without consent. Here are a few (feel free to add your own).
