Go the Other Way

Go the other way.

Is it deep into the night or creeping into the early morning? Get out there and witness the different rhythm.

Is it raining? Head somewhere popular and observe its character in the state of desertion.

Is there an escalator? Take the stairs. They will be less crowded, you'll get some exercise, and probably get where you're going faster.

Are people burdened with luggage like pack mules? Pack light and go fast through crowds.

Are there massive lines? Skip them by planning ahead, going during a different time, or skipping the thing altogether. Sometimes the collective hype is just hot air.

Is everyone heading into subways and taxis? Walk, if you can. You'll see a fuller picture of things.

Do people unquestionably believe something? Double-check if the wisdom of the crowds has true wisdom.

Do you unquestionably believe something? Ask yourself what it would take for you to change your mind.

Go the other way.

Skimming Stones to 10,000 Hours

Writing this blog has been an experiment ever since I first ventured to Malawi in 2009. I didn't think that much about creating the (then) Wordpress site and sharing my thoughts about the first time I left the United States. My writing from that summer is sweetly pure.

Over time, however, I've become more self-conscious of putting my writing out there. We get older and wiser, but we also get more afraid. What will my family, friends, and peers think of the words I put on the page? Am I saying something worthy of people's attention?

Even though I've always seen the project of writing online as a way of navigating my own sense of becoming, pulling my thoughts to the page as a way to make sense of them, these doubting questions can weigh me down sometimes.

The common advice about art is to just churn out more of it, to get your 10,000 hours in any way you can. I think I worry about my art -- writing -- producing beautiful "hours" in the process. The truth of it is that it's all likely to be ugly, with only a few gems to come from it. I know, for example, what's good in something that I write and what's bad. It's only the smallest bits -- a turn of phrase here, or a run of thoughts there -- that I can hold up proudly. I recently read a short essay where someone compared the exercise of a writer's morning pages to that of skimming stones:

You spend a couple of seconds looking for a good stone and you throw. There’s no concern about the quality of the throw, a few throws is all that’s needed to get better.

Most of the stones I throw these days are crap. But if I just keep all these throws to myself and wait until I've reached some sort of self-certified mastery, what's the point of it all? To connect is to be human. We have to show our work of being human. I hope that by putting out at least some of my crap on display, I can nudge myself to keep logging the hours and occasionally stumbling upon beautiful. Maybe others will reach a point where they extend bits of their soul out for others to see, too. What I say doesn't have to be profound and it doesn't have to be inspiring, it just has to be honest. I've just got to keep skimming stones.

The Pause

I've been watching a lot of people take photographs these last few weeks. Buildings, landscapes, food, drinks, art, movement: everything is a potential shot. The constant presence of photography in action made me think about what we are doing when we stop for a picture.

When we see something beautiful or interesting and then move to capture it, what's going on? Part of it is probably rooted in the ego: we want to have proof of where we go and what we see. When we share that proof with others, we are met with adulation, often in the form of abstract Internet approval. Another part of it might have to do with our attempts to bottle the awe and interestingness we encounter and share it with others. Humans have a deep drive to connect with others and one of the most powerful ways of doing that is to let in others on the story we see unfolding before us.

The drive of the ego and our desire to share could explain why we pause to take a photo, but I think there is more going on. Before photography, what did people do? They sat there for a moment and took it all in. Maybe they wrote, painted, or told stories to keep the memory alive. Now, though, we have the option of memoralizing it at low-cost. The choice is ostensibly between keeping it forever and letting it go. "Capturing" a photo is an apt turn of phrase: we either catch the moment or let it return to the wild. These moments don't exist in any true sense beyond the present moment. This impermanence -- the ephemeral nature of what's before us in every moment -- presents a frightening chasm that the past swallows up. It's no surprise that we turn away from embracing this impermanence and cast our nets out to try and keep what we can.

I'm convinced, however, that in the process of running away from the impermanence, we are losing something. We see the photo before we see the moment. This would make a good picture, we think, pulling out our camera. Through the act of framing a picture, our very experience of the moment is also framed.

Let's be clear: I'm not advocating for people to stop taking photographs. They can be a wonderful medium. I take pictures and will continue doing so and the stories they can tell are worthy of deep effort and a keen eye for what makes the world beautiful. I just think that we have to wrestle seriously with the way in which we respond to impermanence. Before you snap, soak it up. Maybe experiment with letting it go completely, freeing yourself of the burden of trying to keep what is ultimately impermanent.

It's worth noting that there's something strange about the language we use for photography. Capture. Shoot. Take. All of these are violent, aggressive words. Even the advice for good photography mirrors the advice for good marksmanship: breathe out when you shoot the photo (and the bullet).

Maybe we can experiment with letting go of this violent attempt to hold on to the past every once in a while. Maybe we can decide to transmute what we see into other forms in order to keep our memories adaptable and multifaceted.

If after a pause, the moment deserves the photo, then, by all means, take your picture. This pause is everything. Learning how to sit in that small space of pause is the battleground for our humanity. It is where we explore the choice of calmness over anger, mindfulness over desire, and courage over fear. We can choose to journey there more often. We should.

Now, hold on a second, I've got to take a picture of this vista...

Drowning in Art

Asha and I have had the chance to drop by a few renowned art museums over the last few weeks. It's been a strange experience for me. When I'm looking at these world-famous paintings, I feel like I'm drowning. I don't know how to swim in this kind of art. I've seen some of the most lauded pieces of art in human history and my gaze passes over the work, gasping for something yet returning nothing. Art should move us and so far these art museums have been an experiment in going nowhere.

Art is undoubtably a subjective experience. The further you drill down, the more the objectivity of the viewer unravels, giving in to raw subjectivity. Every kid has been thrown for a loop when they try to wrap their head around whether the blue that they see is the blue that others see. Maybe the styles of painting that I have encountered aren't for me and that's the end of the story. Certainly, the vast collection of religious art is emphatically not preaching to the choir.

Alternatively, it could be that I'm drowning because I lack the requisite foundation from which to appreciate the work. It could be that I'm outside of the flow channel in Mihály Csíkszentmihályi's flow channel): I have a healthy amount of interest, but too much difficulty. For me, though, that begs the question: is there value in the intrinsic accessibility of art? At least on my end, there's something immediate about good art in other mediums. Powerful writing, music, or film just hits you. You don't need to play classical music to be moved to tears by a beautiful symphony or have to be able to write a novel to be transported by a passage. Of course, the same feeling of drowning could be present when others try to swim in these mediums.

With that said, I think there's some value in drowning. We should all feel completely out of our depth every once in a while. A healthy serving of humility has never hurt anyone. But I still think there's some intrinsic merit to art's accessibility. Maybe someone can throw me a lifeline and keep me from drowning in art any longer?

God, Under Construction

I wrote the following while sitting in La Segrada Familia, shown above at distance.

What is it about God that makes us want to contain that which isn't there? We put up these lofty spaces and then fill them with lofty ideas that always come crashing down from the high ceilings.

Gaudi might be touching God here in this holy space made with such precision and light but what if he isn't what if it's all a cruel joke and we would all be better off stopping the building of any more churches and letting the trees shake the foundations with their overflowing roots and rupture these ideas of old and replace them with the oldest of ideas: that we are probably alone in this universe and that's okay no it's God damn beautiful and scary and wonderful and powerful?

Yes, that's what we must do: return to nature and stop imitating it. We can just sit with it all under the tree, not cutting the tree down to worship a man nailed to boards made of our wandering destruction of nature. We could tear it all down, everybody, and start anew. I'm asking for a tabula rasa, a blank slate created in one swipe that can undo all the hurt and confusion we've sown just trying to make sense of being alone.

We could sit with that aloneness and be radically honest with it. I say again that we're alone but add that we're together. Let's be terrified together and hope for all the tomorrows all the nows to just erupt with joy and patience and kindness and the urgency of beauty and love. We can say yes to all of this while softly saying no to anything else that makes us sink.

All this is all of it and it's enough seven times over. Maybe God didn't make the world in seven days, maybe He didn't make it it at all and I think I can see through the ruse in the piercing light as it dances gently all around me. Maybe this temporary clarity is Truth if I can hold onto it with a sweating hand on the edge just grasping for purchase.

Hanging on this edge I'm led not to giving in to fear but letting in hope despite the utter terror because that is my only -- our only -- recourse. I don't doubt that we can flourish in this powerful uncertainty but I do think that we need to cast out the demons if we want to live again pure and maybe God is just another demon too convincing of our own making, buoyed by the calls for love. I mean can Man really stake a claim on something as big as the idea of God? I sit here and look up to these beautiful ceilings that are held up by the stretch of tree-like columns and still the idea of it all is just too big to house in this house of worship. We've fired too many arrows at Truth and I think we keep missing because the target we are shooting at isn't there. I want to just put down the bow and sit under the tree and always begin again in this moment. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm right who knows I'm just a mortal man dreaming out loud in a dream.

Out of Time

I'm out of time. Not running short on it: I'm outside the usual stream of it. One way of looking at this unit that we measure our lives by is that it's like a bunch of different streams all running in the same direction. I feel like Asha and I are in our own little stream here in Madrid. Partly it's because we traveled here: the act creates its own offshoot stream in time through the oddly shaped days, byproducts of moving across time zones. Travelers dip in and out of these offshoots, unique streams that eventually vanish as one adapts to the rising and falling of the sun in a new place. Adapting here in Madrid is made more complicated by the fact that Spain has a whole different rhythm than home. It's like that scene in Whiplash: "Not quite my tempo." Breakfast isn't the deal I make it at home; lunch waltzes in late; dinner hides until late into the night.

I'm not complaining, really. It's just that we are in this one stream of time and I keep looking at everyone else in that bigger stream, wondering what it feels like.

Sometimes this feeling of out of time is a revealing one: the strange aliveness of early mornings or late nights. Riding those streams, one can capture different parts of the human experience. Still, being out of time like Asha and I are at the moment isn't always what one wants: it's fun to be not only the same place but the same time as everyone else. If time is subjective, there might be some value in buying into the collective experience of a community in time. I think Asha and I might be chasing that more than anything as we wander through Spain.

Eventually, we will return to the bigger river and the stream we're passing through right now could be lost forever. For this moment out of time, though, we are in a whole new world of experience. Maybe "suspended in time" means that you've temporarily stepped out of the main community of time to exist in your own stream for a moment. From this place out of time, you can look on at the main river and wonder where it's all taking us. I guess all we know is that it's somewhere downstream.

Stories in the Sky

Watching movies on a comically tiny screen is a required ritual of traveling by airplane. All those movies that I would never go see in the theaters become the perfects companion for the twilight hours I spend in a metal box flying through the sky.

Asha and I were deep into one of these movies on our flight to Madrid when something unusual happened. As a rule, I try to appreciate any art. No matter the quality, it takes some effort to create and we should always begin our experience with art with that in mind because it allows us to lose ourselves in a story. I like to give every story a chance and see if it can take me along for a journey.

This movie we were watching, though, upended my normal approach, fracturing my viewing experience. Normally it's not until after a movie ends that I take of the hat of the pure viewer and try to reflect on what I saw. Almost immediately upon watching the film, my viewing experience began to bifurcate: Daniel lost in the story and Daniel with a bird's eye view of the narrative.

I got a sense that certain parts of the film's story wore thin, some felt just right, and others lagged a beat too long. This scene had the wrong dynamic to it; that scene didn't quite move the story as intended. At the same time, I was still enjoying the movie: certain narrative tools always make me smile. The whole experience was kind of like trying on a coat. I was at once wrapped in the coat, inundated with the story as Daniel the viewer, and viewing how it looked in the mirror, seeing the whole arc of the story as Daniel with some perspective.

The simultaneous experience of these two viewing experiences was strange, but highlighted the importance of each. Both are not only essential important to enjoying a film's story but also your own story, too. Without the ability to get lost in your own narrative, you miss out on the moment to moment magic that the present can offer. Without the switch to seeing your story in the mirror in all its beauty and flaws, you lack the chance to mend the story for the better and to see how it all fits. But when you do find the right coat -- the right story -- for your life you don't need to do anything but put it on and keep moving.

It Comes In All Shapes and Sizes

Asha and I are heading to Europe for a few weeks. I've finished up my internship this summer and have a long stretch of time before classes begin again in late September. Asha doesn't start her new job until October, so now is the perfect time to grab our bags and get out of town for a while.

I've never been to Europe before; neither has Asha. We'll be roaming around Spain, France, Italy, and Greece. I suspect that we've packed things a little too tightly with our schedule, but we've counterbalanced a full itinerary with light backpacks. Packing light never gets old: I love it when people ask, "That's it?" Yes, I say, this is it, but there's so much more out there.

Things have been a little crazy getting ready for this trip. Asha moved across the country to San Francisco and we found a place in the city close to my family. Between wrapping up the internship, doing a few interviews for next summer, apartment hunting, and trying to nail down some logistics for the trip, I haven't really had a chance to really think about traveling in the first place.

Things were different with my trip to South America. I had a lot of time to dream about the mythos of the traveler and envision what it would be like to venture alone through the varied landscapes. However, I only had a plane ticket to Lima, Peru and no fixed plan or point of return. I hopped from one place to another on more or less a whim.

Now, it's only a hot second before I hop on the plane that I'm starting to imagine what the stories of tomorrow look like, but I have the vessels for all those stories laid out for me: a timeline for cities and travel, AirBnBs booked, transportation arranged.

Granting that not everyone can travel and that it's not some panacea for the soul, if you do travel, it's worth exploring the different ways you can bottle the experience. I'm curious to see how this upcoming trip will interact with its constraints. I suppose that's all you can really ask for at the beginning: raw, open-minded curiosity.

The Act of Killing

I recently watched the documentary The Act of Killing. The premise of the film is somewhat confusing, but it is about the people involved with the killings in Indonesia from 1965-66 as a result of an anti-communist purge. The documentary follows a few individuals reenacting their roles in the killings in a bizarre fashion.

In many ways, what the viewer witnesses in the film is indescribable. As the director Joshua Oppenheimer reflected, "It’s as though I’m in Germany 40 years after the Holocaust, but the Nazis are still in power." The perpetrators of the killings are open, honest, and at times even outright boastful about their past.

As the film progresses, you witness one of the main characters, Anwar, painfully wrestle with his past. At the beginning of the film, you see him gleefully discuss how exactly he killed people on the roof of a building. We find out that despite this apparent pride in his role in the killings, he has frequent nightmares about the people he killed. Later in the film, Anwar plays a victim in one scene and refuses to go on, distraught and unable to continue acting. At the close of the film, Anwar revisits the same roof and retches.

Watching The Act of Killing is a challenging experience. In a recent conversation with Sam Harris, Oppenheimer hits right at the core of that experience at around the 42 minute mark:

Recognizing that virtually every act of evil in our history has been perpetrated by human beings like us, it's uncomfortable because it means that we might, if we lived in other situations, do the same thing. If we grew up in any of these perpetrators' families in 1950s Indonesia, come 1965, we might make the same decision. We would hope that we wouldn't, but most of us are very lucky never to have to find that out. And that's uncomfortable.

Oppenheimer continues, digging a little deeper:

But if you overcome that, you quickly realize that recognizing that every perpetrator is human with very few exceptions and shares the same human morality is the only hopeful response because if there's just monsters among us then we either have to surrender ourselves to this kind of thing happening again and again and again in a kind of despair, or we have to isolate the monsters and somehow neutralize them. And then, how do we stop ourselves from becoming the monsters?

Answering his own question:

Whereas if we can build societies in which we foster the widest possible empathy and where we also foster doubt, where we teach children to doubt what authority tells them so that it's more difficult to incite people to join groups that would betray their individual morality, then we ought to be able to build societies where this kind of unimaginable violence truly becomes unimaginable, where it becomes impossible.

This recognition that Oppenheimer speaks of takes far more courage than simply categorizing the people who carry out these despicable acts as the other and the epitome of absolute evil. It's only when we sit with the uncomfortableness that it could've been us given another circumstance that we truly equip ourselves with the tools to engage with this kind of violence.

The Act of Killing (trailer; Theatrical and Director's Cuts available on Netflix) is worth your time and attention.

Being Human is a Process

What does it mean to be human? John Powell answers:

I think being human is about being in the right kind of relationships. I think being human is a process. It's not something that we just are born with. We actually learn to celebrate our connection, learn to celebrate our love.

This idea is important. Just like any skill, being human benefits from an ongoing education. The school? Life itself.

The whole conversation is wonderful. Listen (or read) here.