This is a wonderful piece. And it is a great reminder to us that we really do rush. And do not stop. Do not notice. Do not breathe. I hope it's OK, but it brought to mind a part of my novel (being shopped by my agent) in which beforehand, I tried to imagine stopping. Completely. I tried to imagine dying and then waking up. Which, I guess, is an extreme example of what you are talking about, that is, that when we stop, when we really really stop, that is the time when we come to life, when we see what we hadn't seen, feel what we hadn't felt. That imagining led to this passage about a mysterious character that emerged from a typo (yes, that's true) and I imagined him waking:
"The man’s eyes open, close, open again. He sees only blackness. Feels only the vibration coming from the stone under his body. Hears only the sound of his eyelashes against the air, whoosh whoosh whoosh, a sensation more than a sound, like rubbing a peach against your cheek.
"His lips part, a pop softly as they separate, held together by the crust of being closed for so long.
It will be some time before he will see light, before what he sees shifts from vague shapes to more distinct forms illuminated only by the light filtering through the crack in the northwest corner of the cave’s ceiling.
"It will be some time before he hears sounds beyond that of the high-pitched ringing and low thrumming in his ears, a constant that envelops him. It will be some time before he makes out the sound of a single trail of moisture sliding down the wall, falling off a tiny precipice and landing on a clump of moss below, before he hears the footsteps of ants skittering across the floor of stone with its veins of gray and black and white and rust, before he hears the vibrations of the spider’s web as the spider spins another tendril at the top of the opening in the tunnel in which he lies. ..."
Thanks for sharing your words, Geoffrey. Good writing slows us, and you have some beautiful lines here. I've been living this year as though it's my last (we never know) and such contemplations truly do change the way we savor and sense and move in the world.
thanks so much. I appreciate your reply. And what an interesting concept, living a year as if it were our last. Appreciating. Taking in. Every moment noticed. It is an active way to live. A conscious way to live. Applause to you.
And I can empathize. For five years I worked on that book, hibernated in that book, living in my created world, with my created characters who i came to love (at least most of them). When finished came the question, 'what now?'
As has been the case in my life, serendipity happened. A man who tried to hire me for 32 years called with an offer. To move 3,000 miles. I declined. But then he came back with a request. A favor. Could you fill in as managing editor, the current one has to go on leave. So I did. So I edit a web news organization from 3,000 miles away. And it has invigorated me. Awakened me. Made me realize -- viscerally -- what I love, more accurately what I missed. And in three weeks I have made a difference. Because the one thing old farts have is experience. Knowledge. And no fear at saying what needs to be said. The "kids" are a blast. And they're working their tails off. And they have the confidence of knowing that last year they won journalism's highest honor, an affirmation. And that gave them acceptance. The desire to learn. The desire to move forward and do better.
Currently we have plenty of opportunities to practice our Viktor Frankl.
Too, too many, my friend. To personal autonomy and sovereignty during seemingly impossible times.
This is a wonderful piece. And it is a great reminder to us that we really do rush. And do not stop. Do not notice. Do not breathe. I hope it's OK, but it brought to mind a part of my novel (being shopped by my agent) in which beforehand, I tried to imagine stopping. Completely. I tried to imagine dying and then waking up. Which, I guess, is an extreme example of what you are talking about, that is, that when we stop, when we really really stop, that is the time when we come to life, when we see what we hadn't seen, feel what we hadn't felt. That imagining led to this passage about a mysterious character that emerged from a typo (yes, that's true) and I imagined him waking:
"The man’s eyes open, close, open again. He sees only blackness. Feels only the vibration coming from the stone under his body. Hears only the sound of his eyelashes against the air, whoosh whoosh whoosh, a sensation more than a sound, like rubbing a peach against your cheek.
"His lips part, a pop softly as they separate, held together by the crust of being closed for so long.
It will be some time before he will see light, before what he sees shifts from vague shapes to more distinct forms illuminated only by the light filtering through the crack in the northwest corner of the cave’s ceiling.
"It will be some time before he hears sounds beyond that of the high-pitched ringing and low thrumming in his ears, a constant that envelops him. It will be some time before he makes out the sound of a single trail of moisture sliding down the wall, falling off a tiny precipice and landing on a clump of moss below, before he hears the footsteps of ants skittering across the floor of stone with its veins of gray and black and white and rust, before he hears the vibrations of the spider’s web as the spider spins another tendril at the top of the opening in the tunnel in which he lies. ..."
Thanks for sharing your words, Geoffrey. Good writing slows us, and you have some beautiful lines here. I've been living this year as though it's my last (we never know) and such contemplations truly do change the way we savor and sense and move in the world.
thanks so much. I appreciate your reply. And what an interesting concept, living a year as if it were our last. Appreciating. Taking in. Every moment noticed. It is an active way to live. A conscious way to live. Applause to you.
And I can empathize. For five years I worked on that book, hibernated in that book, living in my created world, with my created characters who i came to love (at least most of them). When finished came the question, 'what now?'
As has been the case in my life, serendipity happened. A man who tried to hire me for 32 years called with an offer. To move 3,000 miles. I declined. But then he came back with a request. A favor. Could you fill in as managing editor, the current one has to go on leave. So I did. So I edit a web news organization from 3,000 miles away. And it has invigorated me. Awakened me. Made me realize -- viscerally -- what I love, more accurately what I missed. And in three weeks I have made a difference. Because the one thing old farts have is experience. Knowledge. And no fear at saying what needs to be said. The "kids" are a blast. And they're working their tails off. And they have the confidence of knowing that last year they won journalism's highest honor, an affirmation. And that gave them acceptance. The desire to learn. The desire to move forward and do better.
What a gift I have been given.
That bird call image. Wow!