Listen
There must have been a time in my life when I was bored. I don't remember it, but surely it happened. After all, it seems so common in the lives of others. I hear people talk about being bored by movies, by books, when they're at work, when they aren't at work. Thousand and thousands of people occupy themselves seeking to prevent us from being bored, or offering us alternatives when we are. We can watch television shows, go to movies, view or participate in sports, take classes, or, of course, shop.
But boredom has never been my problem. Quite the opposite. In childhood, I always had the random teasing and attacks of older brothers to anticipate, or the continual fighting between my parents to wrench me from whatever peace I managed to find. Even more than that, though, I wasn't bored because the world just fascinated me, and it still does.
I'm endlessly curious about why people do the things they do, how they come to their beliefs and attitudes. I wonder at the beauty, the horror, the panorama of life. If nothing else, I wonder about my future, and the future of those I care about. I see the textured surface of a wall and wonder how it was made, and why it's considered fashionable. I hear a song and think about how it reminds me of something else I heard twenty years ago, or last week. I think, I dream, I worry, but always something occupies my mind. This isn't always a good thing.
A former professor of mine once talked about how her mind seems to work in something of the same way. She described it as having a kind of second head on her right shoulder, constantly commenting on life, constantly chattering away, belittling, remarking, describing, warning, pestering. I don't know if other people experience life in that way, but I certainly do.
When my life is going well, I'm able to turn that other voice and its constant chatter into insights, questions, ideas. But sometimes we take a wrong turn, and it fuels an endless anxiety. I remember when the film "A Beautiful Mind" came out and was praised for its depiction of mental illness, but except for the fact that I don't mistake my voices for real people, his existence felt somewhat familiar to me.
Lately, I've been going through a time of unease whose source I can't quite identify. I find myself struggling to sleep at night, sometimes uncharacteristically quiet with my wife. I give this concern tangible labels, like "money" or "where I am spiritually" or "work," concrete names that are supposed to help me locate and solve the problem. But I suspect something else is at work. That other head is trying to tell me something, trying to shake me out of some lethargy. It wants something more from me than to settle into the routines of life; it isn't content with my going through the motions.
Because when it comes down to it, I'd really rather be bored. I'd rather be able, sometimes at least, do disengage from the wonder that each moment brings to me. I'd rather be able to spend an ordinary day going through my ordinary tasks without generating a million new questions. I'd rather have some peace.
Instead, I live with the roar of that other voice, like the ocean, pounding beside my head. I tilt my head. I'm trying to listen.
But boredom has never been my problem. Quite the opposite. In childhood, I always had the random teasing and attacks of older brothers to anticipate, or the continual fighting between my parents to wrench me from whatever peace I managed to find. Even more than that, though, I wasn't bored because the world just fascinated me, and it still does.
I'm endlessly curious about why people do the things they do, how they come to their beliefs and attitudes. I wonder at the beauty, the horror, the panorama of life. If nothing else, I wonder about my future, and the future of those I care about. I see the textured surface of a wall and wonder how it was made, and why it's considered fashionable. I hear a song and think about how it reminds me of something else I heard twenty years ago, or last week. I think, I dream, I worry, but always something occupies my mind. This isn't always a good thing.
A former professor of mine once talked about how her mind seems to work in something of the same way. She described it as having a kind of second head on her right shoulder, constantly commenting on life, constantly chattering away, belittling, remarking, describing, warning, pestering. I don't know if other people experience life in that way, but I certainly do.
When my life is going well, I'm able to turn that other voice and its constant chatter into insights, questions, ideas. But sometimes we take a wrong turn, and it fuels an endless anxiety. I remember when the film "A Beautiful Mind" came out and was praised for its depiction of mental illness, but except for the fact that I don't mistake my voices for real people, his existence felt somewhat familiar to me.
Lately, I've been going through a time of unease whose source I can't quite identify. I find myself struggling to sleep at night, sometimes uncharacteristically quiet with my wife. I give this concern tangible labels, like "money" or "where I am spiritually" or "work," concrete names that are supposed to help me locate and solve the problem. But I suspect something else is at work. That other head is trying to tell me something, trying to shake me out of some lethargy. It wants something more from me than to settle into the routines of life; it isn't content with my going through the motions.
Because when it comes down to it, I'd really rather be bored. I'd rather be able, sometimes at least, do disengage from the wonder that each moment brings to me. I'd rather be able to spend an ordinary day going through my ordinary tasks without generating a million new questions. I'd rather have some peace.
Instead, I live with the roar of that other voice, like the ocean, pounding beside my head. I tilt my head. I'm trying to listen.
posted by A Pilgrim at 12:45 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home