As I lay under a tree, my brother is next to me sketching a far off building, I find myself staring at the branches. A breeze comes and moves the branches back and forth just like it would in any other tree, the same thing I’ve always seen. But then I remembered that some people love nature; some believe that trees can dance. And then I saw it differently. I began to see each branch swaying back and forth, each individual leaf dancing to its own rhythm. It was no longer just a mass of twigs and leaves, but a waltz that I was invited to observe and enjoy. And I began to wonder. People used to believe in dryads and spirits in the trees, and I wonder if this is what they saw.
As I am at work watching a child play Mario Kart Double Dash, he keeps laughing loudly as he continually drives his car off the same cliff. Again. And again. And again. I get internally frustrated with him because obviously he is not realizing the point of this game. He instead gets a weird sense of enjoyment by repeatedly having his car plummet off the cliff, accomplishing nothing. But then I thought he might actually be having fun. And then I saw it differently. I began to find the courses as fantastical: you race around the feet of dinosaurs, speed across the tops of rainbows, soar across pits of lava, and navigate your way across perilous mountains. I thought he might be amused driving off a cliff because he was driving into lava and surviving, something that is bizarre and unheard of in this reality. And I began to wonder. People turned their imaginations into a virtual reality, and I find it remarkable that I can share in another’s vision.
As I walk to the car to get something to relieve my bored brother lying in the emergency room, there are people crying in the lobby that I pass through. I see a family talking to a doctor about their grandfather. I hear a child screaming in pain; I can see his feet struggling through a gap in his curtain. I see a woman with black hair sitting alone, distraught, staring blankly into space. I try to avoid meeting her gaze, but she makes no effort to look at me. But then I remembered that people in pain need people. And then I saw it differently. Though I was too much of a coward to say hello to the woman with black hair, I found the courage to at least smile at her and waved. I needed to be with my brother, but I hope my small gesture showed a bit of the care I felt but was too nervous to act on. And I began to wonder. People often need to become desensitized to survive working in a place like this, but what if you allowed yourself to feel all the pain of these people around you?
As I make my 6 hour drive through the desert that I’ve done this dozens of times before, I get caught in traffic along the way and lament my misfortune. I just want to get through this place as fast as possible. I try to find some good song to listen to and to numb my mind to the coming storm of boredom. But then I thought that this is a prime opportunity to sit and reflect. And then I saw it differently. I began to see the desert as a place of peace and calm but also a place where you could go as fast as you can without worrying about coming across anything. I imagine an oasis, home to a sage who spent his life contemplating signs in the stars. I imagined getting on an ATV and just driving for miles. And I began to wonder. People usually see deserts as big wastes of space, but maybe we need big spaces to run across so we feel what it is like to run as fast as possible. Or maybe we need them as places to get away from everything and everyone.
My favorite moment in the television show Scrubs takes place over two episodes. In the first, three patients die under the care of one of the lead doctors simultaneously. The second episode involves him in a deep depression, sitting around drinking scotch and not speaking to anyone. Eventually, the lead character is able to lift his depression by telling him that he hopes to one day become a doctor like him. Not because he is a skilled doctor, but because he still takes it hard when his patients die. He hasn’t become jaded, but he feels each of his patient’s pain.
I hope to be this way.
I think there is a difference between something growing old and something growing stale, but we use the two terms synonymously. Whenever we do an activity over and over, it gets tiring and uninteresting. It is just repetition; we’ve done it a thousand times before. But this is when something grows stale, and I don’t think this has to happen when something grows old. When something grows old, you get to experience more of it. You begin to fine tune and see the subtleties. You discover the intricacies and delve deeper into its secrets. I’m not sure how things grow stale, but whenever I wonder about something, I begin to see it differently.
Whenever I spend time wondering, I find that things don’t grow stale. To me, it feels like getting in touch with an old friend, and rediscovering why you loved each other to begin with. And then you love it more. It ages instead of growing stale.
As I walk to the car to get something to relieve my bored brother lying in the emergency room, there are people crying in the lobby that I pass through. I see a family talking to a doctor about their grandfather. I hear a child screaming in pain; I can see his feet struggling through a gap in his curtain. I see a woman with black hair sitting alone, distraught, staring blankly into space. I try to avoid meeting her gaze, but she makes no effort to look at me. But then I remembered that people in pain need people. And then I saw it differently. Though I was too much of a coward to say hello to the woman with black hair, I found the courage to at least smile at her and waved. I needed to be with my brother, but I hope my small gesture showed a bit of the care I felt but was too nervous to act on. And I began to wonder. People often need to become desensitized to survive working in a place like this, but what if you allowed yourself to feel all the pain of these people around you?
As I make my 6 hour drive through the desert that I’ve done this dozens of times before, I get caught in traffic along the way and lament my misfortune. I just want to get through this place as fast as possible. I try to find some good song to listen to and to numb my mind to the coming storm of boredom. But then I thought that this is a prime opportunity to sit and reflect. And then I saw it differently. I began to see the desert as a place of peace and calm but also a place where you could go as fast as you can without worrying about coming across anything. I imagine an oasis, home to a sage who spent his life contemplating signs in the stars. I imagined getting on an ATV and just driving for miles. And I began to wonder. People usually see deserts as big wastes of space, but maybe we need big spaces to run across so we feel what it is like to run as fast as possible. Or maybe we need them as places to get away from everything and everyone.
My favorite moment in the television show Scrubs takes place over two episodes. In the first, three patients die under the care of one of the lead doctors simultaneously. The second episode involves him in a deep depression, sitting around drinking scotch and not speaking to anyone. Eventually, the lead character is able to lift his depression by telling him that he hopes to one day become a doctor like him. Not because he is a skilled doctor, but because he still takes it hard when his patients die. He hasn’t become jaded, but he feels each of his patient’s pain.
I hope to be this way.
I think there is a difference between something growing old and something growing stale, but we use the two terms synonymously. Whenever we do an activity over and over, it gets tiring and uninteresting. It is just repetition; we’ve done it a thousand times before. But this is when something grows stale, and I don’t think this has to happen when something grows old. When something grows old, you get to experience more of it. You begin to fine tune and see the subtleties. You discover the intricacies and delve deeper into its secrets. I’m not sure how things grow stale, but whenever I wonder about something, I begin to see it differently.
Whenever I spend time wondering, I find that things don’t grow stale. To me, it feels like getting in touch with an old friend, and rediscovering why you loved each other to begin with. And then you love it more. It ages instead of growing stale.
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