Category: Life
I want to be a grandfather who tells stories to his grandkids one day. Fantastic stories. Stories about how I fought off legions of rogue ninjas who swarmed the family mansion with just a rusty butter knife.
Or maybe something less violent. Like, hmm. Like how there was a roaring inferno in a school and I rushed in to save a group of trapped quadriplegic kindergarteners on the fifth floor.
Okay, I admit it: I have Hero syndrome. So maybe I should make the stories slightly more believable. Something my grandkids would believe I really did.
Then again, is fighting off killer ninjas and rescuing kindergarteners really that unbelievable?
Okay, dumb question.
The point is: I like weaving together and telling stories. Sometimes these stories are part fantasy and part reality. Taking a little creative license always helps to spice up a story. My life isn’t as exciting as a rock climber or international super agent, so I kind of have to.
They say that being able to look at an everyday situation and reframe it into a story is a bit of an art. It takes an observant eye and always-on memory.
For me, I have a fundamental belief that life is all a matter of perspective. We all look at life through different lenses. If your lens is blue, life for you is blue. If your lens is full of joy and energy, life for you is mostly full of joy and energy.
One of the lenses I often like to use is the Storyteller Lens. Every experience I go through has the ability to turn into a full-fledged story. Every experience, however, is not story-worthy. This lens allows me to discern which experiences will make a good story, and which won’t.
Or, at least, that’s what I hope it can do. My lens isn’t always accurate. And that’s what these Rambles are for. They’re storytelling practice. Within this large pile of coals, hopefully I’ll create a few gems that I’ll carry with me forever.
Which means that maybe I should write more stories about killer ninjas and raging infernos. Otherwise, all I’ll have for my grandkids are a bunch of stories about growing old and planning scavenger hunts.
. . .
What kind of grandparent do you want to be?
Sitting across from me in Borders Books is an elderly couple. The husband is reading a book on economics and sipping hot coffee. The wife is flipping through a magazine and eating a slice of chocolate cake.
“Young people today,” the wife announces. “They’re so quick to get divorced. They don’t understand the value of marriage anymore.”
“Did another Hollywood couple get divorced?” asks the husband without looking up from his book.
“Yea. And they’re so young too.”
“That’s because they don’t know how to compromise anymore. They have no respect for each other anymore.” The husband takes a sip of coffee and slowly shakes his head.
“You’re absolutely right. It’s all about respect.”
The husband looks into his wife’s eyes and they smile silently at each other for a moment. “Respect,” the husband nods.
“Do you want to try some of this cake?” the wife asks. “It’s delicious.”
“No thanks.” He looks over at his wife’s empty cup. “Let me get us some more coffee.” He slowly backs out of his chair and walks to the coffee counter.
As he orders more coffee, she picks up their empty cups and drops them into the garbage.
“Two piping hot coffees!” the husband declares as he returns. “Ow, they’re hot!”
She takes her coffee from his hand as he takes a seat. “Oh my, it IS hot!”
“Just like my baby!” he adds with a smile.
She smiles back and puts her hand on his cheek. They both take careful sips of their coffee and return to their reading.
The husband notices me staring at them and looks up. I give him a smile and a nod. He returns my nod and gives me a wink.
I turn back to my laptop and realize that he gave me more than just a wink and a story; he also gave me a life lesson.
. . .
Have you learned any good life lessons?
Categories:
Best Of,
Conversations,
Getting Older,
In a Cafe,
Life,
Sleeping,
Stress,
The Media,
Theories,
Values,
Work“Damn, I can’t remember what he said, but I remember it was something important.”
Laura gave me the Raised Eyebrow. “You can’t remember? That was like, only ten minutes ago!”
I sighed. “I know, I know…”
“It’s old age, isn’t it? Your memory is going.” She shook her head sadly with a look of utter resignation. “It’s all over for you, Mike. It’s all over.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence. Really.”
“I’m merely saying what has to be said. It’s time to face the truth, Mike.”
Now I gave her the Raised Eyebrow. “You’re funny. And so is your face! Ha!”
“Distasteful jokes won’t bring your memory back, grandpa. And you look like The Rock when you try doing the Raised Eyebrow thing.”
“What?” I raised my eyebrow again. “Do I, really?”
“Yup. Just like the Rock, only a memory-lapsing version of him.”
I rubbed my eyes. “You know why my memory isn’t as good as it used to be? It’s because of the complex society in which we live.”
“Oh? Do tell, Mr. Sociologist.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. Here are Mike’s reasons for the increasing memory loss of young professionals in an urban American life.”
“Great thesis. You should write a paper on this.”
“Or maybe a ramble. Hmm.” I scratched my chin. “Well, okay, so here are my reasons. Reason One: Information Overload.”
“Information Overload? Don’t you mean old age?”
“If you’re going to keep interrupting me,” I cast the Evil Eye, “then I’m not going to tell you.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll keep quiet. Please continue.” She sat back in her seat and regarded me like a sad little puppy. I huffed, then continued.
“Information Overload.” I cleared my throat. “We are being bombarded by more media, messages, and information than previous generations. We have access to way more stored knowledge and information than generations before. Television, the Internet, books, billboards, and even ads in public restrooms, for goodness’ sake. There is more informational stimuli coming into our brains than we can reasonably handle. Therefore, most of that information is going to slip out of our minds. We simply can’t retain it all.”
“Okay, I can buy that.”
“Good, I’m glad I have your approval. Now, Reason Two: Responsibility Overload.”
She chuckled. “Oooo, you have good titles for these.”
“Why thank you. I’m making these all up as I go.”
“Really?” Another Raised Eyebrow. “Impressive, Mike, impressive. Go on.”
“Responsibility Overload. Not only is more information coming at us, but so is more responsibility. Now we have to worry about school loans, car loans, mortgages, life insurance, house insurance, other kinds of insurance, 401ks, IRAs, savings accounts, checking accounts, investment accounts,”—breath—”child care, new age parenting techniques, quality school systems, quality colleges, good careers, new technologies, new wars, dictatorships, terrorists, bombings, weapons of mass destruction, AIDS, new diseases, biological warfare, drugs, teenage pregnancies, violence in video games, violence on television, Social Security, Medicare, pensions, retirement… shall I go on?”
“Gosh Mike, now I’m really depressed.”
“Good. There are a lot of responsibilities and concerns for us nowadays. Our parents didn’t have as many things to worry about. And the kicker is, most of these things aren’t even things we should be worried about! But our society and the media has created a Culture of Worry and all of these things are things we must be worried about now, otherwise we’d be considered uneducated and ignorant citizens.”
“Can you shoot me now? Please? Put me out of my misery.”
“And that’s only Reason Two. Reason Three is Sleep Deprivation.”
Laura rubbed her eyes. “I sure feel tired, although I’m too freaked out and depressed to fall asleep now.”
“That’s exactly it!” I pounded the table. “We’re all too busy or freaked out or worried to sleep. Who ever gets a full eight hours of sleep nowadays? Who?”
“Not me. I got four hours last night.”
“Exactly! I got about six I think. We had less than that during college. Doctors get even less sleep. You know how pre-med students have to do those crazy rotations? Well, I’ve heard that some have to stay awake for a full 36 hours!”
“That’s crazy! I couldn’t stay awake for 36 hours.”
“Do you really want a doctor who’s been awake for 36 hours to treat you? Hells no! But we still force those students to do that. And in the dot-com industry, it was pretty standard to pull all-nighters and code code code all night long. Sleep is seen as an unnecessary task that we need to minimize, so that we can be as productive as possible. This has led to a Culture of Sleep Walkers, or zombies that go through life everyday in a daze. We all need more sleep. Our brains can’t function well without enough sleep.”
Laura bit her lip. “You’ve convinced me. I’m going to sleep for like a week now.”
“And you should! Because that would help with Reason Four too. Increased Stress. All of that extra information and responsibility, combined with a lack of sleep, is adding a foundation of extra stress in all of our lives. Stress is the leading cause of heart attacks and poor health, both physical and mental. We’re all killing ourselves slowly, and we don’t even realize it.”
“You’re totally stressing me out, Mike.”
“Finally, there’s Reason Five: Multitasking.”
“Multitasking?” Laura raised her eyebrow again. “Are we talking about computers now?”
“You really like the Raised Eyebrow thing, don’t you?”
“Maybe I have a chance to become the next Rock.”
I smirked. “You mean like a Rockette?”
“Ha! Funny, Mike. So funny I forgot to laugh.”
“You forgot, huh? See, you’ve got memory loss too!”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, you’ve caught me. That’s because I’m suffering from information overload, responsibility overload, sleep deprivation, increased stress, and multitasking.”
I nodded solemnly. “You’ve learned well, my young apprentice.”
“So go on. Tell me about Multitasking.”
“Okay, Multitasking. So we’re being forced to diverge our brains onto more and more tasks nowadays. Being able to focus on several different things at once can be a helpful trait. But generally, too many different tasks can begin to wear down one’s productivity. Also, the very nature of multitasking means each task is getting only a part of your attention at any given time. No one task is being done as well as it could be. You’re splitting up your ability to do a great job on one task, into several tasks all done with mediocrity. Computers can multitask well, but human beings aren’t meant to.”
“So I really shouldn’t chew gum and walk at the same time?”
“Hells no! Otherwise, you might die!”
“Aaaahhh!” she screamed and spit out her gum.
“Whoa, I had no idea you were chewing gum this whole time. You hid it well.”
“I’ve learned to hide gum chewing well, so that I can chew gum at work.”
“You chew gum during work?” I scratched my head. “Isn’t that unprofessional?”
“Yea, that’s why I have to hide it.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Do you have any more reasons to your thesis?”
“Nope, that’s all I can think of for now. Five reasons. I think that’s plenty enough.”
“Definitely! Now you’ve gotten me all scared and stressed out and feeling like I just need to lie in bed for the next month or so.”
“And you know what will happen if you do?”
“What?”
“You’ll probably find your memory improving again. You see, without all this extra stimuli, you’ll be able to focus on a smaller set of important things at once. And you’ll be able to perform them much better.”
“I’d also lose my job too.”
“Ah, yes,” I sighed. “That’s the price you’d have to pay for an improved memory.”
“Can’t I just prioritize all of the stimuli and information and responsibilities that I have, so I can focus on the most important ones instead?”
I paused. “Um…” I scratched my head again. “Yea, I guess you can.”
“Aw Mike, did I just blow that entire theory of yours?”
I sat back in my chair in resignation. “Wow, yea, I guess you did. And I thought I had such a well thought-out theory too.”
“Well, maybe you’re still right. And prioritization is simply the answer to the problem your theory poses.”
“Hey, you’re right! You’re a genius!”
“I know,” Laura beamed. “That’s because I’m smart and don’t have memory problems like you do, grandpa.”
. . .
How is your memory?
I’ve noticed that what we expect out of life has a lot to do with how happy we are.
Take my friend Maria, for instance. She’s an idealist. She expects a lot out of herself and a lot out of life. When life doesn’t meet her expectations, she doesn’t understand why and becomes unhappy.
My friend Brian, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. He’s a cynic. He expects very little of himself and very little out of life. He believes that only bad things will happen because life isn’t capable of delivering anything good. And when it does, he views it with suspicion.
Somewhere in the middle is Colleen. She’s a realist. She expects good and bad things and realizes that it’s hard to predict which will happen. The good and the bad can go hand and hand and neither shakes her resolve because she expects both of them to happen.
This is the foundation of my “Happiness from Expectations Theory“. I call this foundation the Expectations Continuum. Within this gamut is Idealism (high expectations) on one side and Cynicism (low expectations) on the other. Realism is right in the middle.
I believe that both nature and nurture inclines us to a particular place on this Continuum. It could be over-protective parents or a low-income neighborhood or a genetic predisposition.
That doesn’t mean we can’t change our expectations, however. The first step is to know where you are on this Continuum and admit it to yourself. That’s a tough but very necessary step.
The next step is to take action and change your expectations of life. This is an even tougher step. But to succeed is to have a much happier outlook in life.
I remember when I first realized this in myself. I was a much younger, much more idealistic kid. But somewhere in my childhood, that idealism collided into a perceived life of unmet expectations, sending me sprawling into a cynical view of life.
It was Spring in New York City. I looked up at the sky and said to my girlfriend back then, “Look.” She looked up with me. “Dark clouds. That means rain is coming.”
She looked at me and sighed. “It’s funny that you noticed the rain clouds. When I looked up, the first thing I noticed were the beautiful blossoms on that tree. That means Spring is coming.”
Although I outwardly dismissed her words, inwardly, I’ve never forgotten them. Slowly, over time, I made myself look at both the dark clouds and the beautiful blossoms. And over time, it became a habit, a regular part of my life. I had changed my expectations of life.
I was born an idealist. I hoped for fairness and expected a lot out of myself. A childhood of shyness and racism pushed me to the other side of the spectrum, to cynicism. Thus like a pendulum, I swung back and forth many times throughout my youth.
That’s one of the hazards of changing your expectations. Without a strong guide, we tend to overcompensate when we shift directions. It happens when we drive and it happens when we try to change ourselves.
A strong guide is basically a role model. Without one, you’ll swing. But ultimately, the pendulum will settle down. That’s what happened with me. It wouldn’t have been possible, though, without taking the first step.
I feel bad for Maria and Brian sometimes. Maria expects so much. She looks at life with such wide eyes and hope. But when things don’t go her way, she takes it hard. “This isn’t what I expected,” she says. “This isn’t how it should be. Life shouldn’t be this hard. It should be easier.”
Brian is mired with the same unhappiness. He expects so little that it imbues him with a sense of helplessness. When we talk of the job market getting better, he becomes suspicious. “So what if it gets better? It will get worse again someday too. You’ll end up getting a job just to get laid off again in a few years. That’s how it always is.”
All the while, Colleen sits there between them, sipping her coffee. Vapors rise from it. “Too hot?” I ask.
“Yea, but it’ll cool down in a bit. I just have to wait. But in the meantime, I can sip it.” And so she smiles and enjoys her coffee.
. . .
Are you more of an idealist or realist?
Yeh-Yeh is what you call your grandfather, your father’s father, in Cantonese. Ngeen-Ngeen is what you call your grandmother, your father’s mother.
There is a different title for each relative, depending on the side of the family. Even each aunt and uncle has a different title. It is a lot to remember, though as a kid, it seemed perfectly normal. The Western way of using only one word seemed almost lazy by comparison.
My Yeh-Yeh was anything but lazy. At his eulogy, one of my uncles said he was a proud man who worked hard all of his life. I wonder what will be said of my Ngeen-Ngeen at her eulogy next week.
Fortunately, I saw her just three weeks ago. I held her hand as she smiled at me. Little did I know it was to be the last time I’d ever see her smile again.
I don’t know a great deal about their lives and hardships, though Yeh-Yeh fortunately left our family a short memorandum of his life. He wrote it right after his 50th marriage anniversary. Cross-referencing that with what I know of American history, I’ve gathered a small glimpse into their past.
He immigrated to the United States when he was only seventeen years old as a “paper son“. First, he arrived in San Francisco. Then, about two weeks later, he moved to New York City to work with his actual grandfather at a laundromat. Like many other Chinese immigrants before him, he toiled in that laundromat day and night to help his family have a better life.
Three years later, he returned to China with his grandfather. There, he reunited with a schoolmate sweetheart, my Ngeen-Ngeen. They were married soon thereafter.
After their first son (my eldest uncle) was born, Yeh-Yeh returned to New York alone and continued working at the laundromat. The money he made was sent back to China to support his wife and son.
Then came World War II. Like many other patriotic Chinese Americans before him, he enlisted into the United States Army. After basic training, was shipped to England for overseas services as a combat engineer with the 1st Division.
He was part of the campaigns in French North Africa and Sicily, Italy. The incursion into French North Africa was dubbed Operation Torch and was led by U.S. General Dwight Eisenhower. This operation successfully pushed German General Erwin Rommel and his Afrika Korps back to Germany.
With that victory, the Allied forces quickly turned to Sicily with Operation Husky, also under Eisenhower. This led to the dismissal of the Italian Dictator Benito Mussolini a few weeks later.
Then came June 6th, 1944 and the Battle of Normandy. Dubbed Operation Overlord, the brutal invasion is one of the most bloodiest and largest in human history. My Yeh-Yeh was there. Realizing that has given me a whole new haunting perspective to the movie “Saving Private Ryan” and it’s Omaha Beach invasion scene.
He and his division pressed onward through France, Holland, Belgium, Germany, and finally to Czechoslovakia. A series of decisive victories followed them. Finally, Nazi Germany and Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich was defeated on May 8th, 1945. Also known as V-E Day, my Yeh-Yeh was in Schoubach, Czechoslovakia on that day.
When I was a kid, he would often give my brother and me G.I. Joe figures. The very first figure was a minesweeper. He pointed at it and told us that was what he did in the war. There is also a vague memory of a story about him being in a trench as a tank passed above him. During those years of war, he was in front-line combat duty for a total of sixteen months.
Several years later, he returned to China to be with his family. Right before the war ended, the Chinese Exclusion Act was repealed in 1943. Over the next few years, he brought his wife and kids over to the United States to be with him and to give them all a better life.
I hope my Yeh-Yeh and Ngeen-Ngeen are proud of their children and grandchildren. In my mind, they’ve vastly succeeded in giving all of us very privileged lives, lives that would never have been possible otherwise. I am eternally grateful for their sacrifices, both for this country and their family.
Thank you, Yeh-Yeh and Ngeen-Ngeen. Now that you both are together once more, I hope you are happy and smiling again.
. . .
What do you remember of your grandparents?
As his eyes rose to the sun-brazen sky, he thought to himself: “Yup, today is a good day to make amends.”
The old man staggered down the steps of his porch. Each worn board creaked out a different tale. He stomped onto the sand and puffed dirt into the sky. His cane pressed into the ground and left behind a solitary mark.
A wind began to gust. It howled around him as he wandered into the open wheat field behind his ranch. Both his bones and the wind sang to him, a raspy whistling tune.
He turned around and surveyed his home. The two-story house stood proud yet empty. There once was laughter all around. The old man blinked his wet eyes to try to see it again. “Ah, there it is.”
A little boy raced around the house, chased by an older boy and a younger girl. A woman stood in the doorway with a cup of coffee, smiling. The older boy caught the younger one and tackled him. The girl squealed and jumped up and down in delight. The boys tumbled into the grass and howled.
Then a puff of smoke appeared in the street. The children stopped playing and looked up. A truck rounded the bend and cruised towards the house. “Poppa!” cheered the children.
A man stepped out from the truck. The children ran up and encircled his legs. “Poppa!” they shouted.
He smiled and jumbled their hair. “How are my little munchkins?” he teased. The boys ran in circles around him as he picked up the little girl and gave her a kiss. “And how are you, my little princess?”
The little girl giggled. “We played hide-and-go-seek today!” she announced with glee. “And I hid in a bush behind the house and they couldn’t find me!”
“Is that so? Why, you’re a clever little princess!”
The woman walked over. “Hi honey!”
“Hi baby!” he greeted and hugged and kissed her too.
The vision began to blur. Blinking, the old man rubbed his eyes and tried to save the past. When he looked up again, it was gone.
He sighed and started towards the wheat field again. The wind rushed dirt and leaves around his thin legs. Covered only by tattered trousers and worn-out patches, his legs shivered. In the wind, a few lonely gray hairs fluttered, as if trying to leave his old body.
His joints cracked and the pain almost made him yelp. Breathing heavily, he steadied himself with his cane as he felt his heart pounding in his chest. Each beat was a thunderous roar. He winced and continued on.
As he brushed aside the wheat, the memories picked at his ears. He heard faint noises inside the house. Once again, a truck drove up to the house. But this time, no “Poppa!” cheers greeted the man in the truck.
The man entered the house. Footsteps approached him. “It’s so late, honey,” said the woman’s voice. A muffled agreement answered her. “The kids are upstairs already, asleep. We were waiting for you for dinner, but they finally got too tired and went to sleep.”
Another muffled answer came from the man and the footsteps shuffled apart.
The old man rubbed his ears. He wasn’t sure he wanted to keep listening, but he couldn’t stop it now. “Honey,” spoke the woman’s voice, “how much longer do you have to keep working so late?”
The tired man’s voice muttered, “I’m sorry baby. You know I have to keep doing this for the family. I have a lot of responsibilities.” Then he fell into the bed, exhausted.
This pain was worse than the pain in the old man’s joints. He grabbed his chest. Each breath was a labor of agony. The pounding of his old heart was getting louder.
His eyes were tearing again. He blinked but wasn’t able to clear them. In front of him was the woman, lying peacefully in an open casket. Her arms were to her sides and her eyes were closed.
The man cried as his children attended to the funeral. “Dad,” one of them said days later. “I think you ought to go live in a place where someone can take care of you.”
The man looked at his son, bewildered. “You mean leave this house? Live in a nursing home? Our family grew up here. I can’t leave here.”
The son shook his head. “Now that Mom’s gone, we can’t leave you alone.”
“Then stay,” said the man quietly, hopefully. “Stay with me. Just for a little while.”
“Dad, we have our own lives now. I’ve already taken off enough days for this funeral. I can’t take off any more time. I have responsibilities.”
The man bowed his head and nodded. He taught his children well. “I’m staying,” he declared. “I can take care of myself here.”
The son sighed. “Fine, Dad.” He stood up and took his coat. “We’ll visit you once in a while.”
The man smiled and nodded. The son turned and left.
Howling all around the old man, the wind began to pick up. Dirt swished and swirled. He covered his eyes and nose. Particles of sand bit his skin, attacking him from a thousand sides. He wobbled on his cane, trying desperately to hold himself up. Then, as suddenly as it rose, the wind died.
He coughed. It was a painful cough that radiated throughout his entire frail body. In reply, his heart sent shockwaves through his nerves. The combined assault blinded his senses momentarily.
The old man griped his cane tightly. Grabbed onto his chest again, he willed himself forward and took another step. Then he continued on.
A phone rang. He looked around him. Nothing but the wheat field and his house far in the distance could be seen. The phone rang again. Another memory drifted with the wind and into his ears.
“Hi Dad, I won’t be able to come over again this year,” spoke a voice on the other line.
“It’s okay. How are you doing?”
“Awful. Another collections agent came by the house today. I can’t pay these guys and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Why don’t you ask your brother or sister for help?”
“They’re not in much better shape than I am, Dad. She’s deeper in debt than she lets on and used to borrow from me all the time. Guess I can’t lend her any more money now.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“Yea. And he isn’t much better. His ex-wife ended up taking most of his assets. He’s back at the diner now.”
“The diner? But I thought he was…”
“Working as a clerk at that office downtown? He is. He’s got three jobs now. How else can he afford to support his kid?”
The man sighed. “How are your kids?”
“They’re okay I think. I just got them a video game console with my credit card, so that ought to keep them busy all day.”
“Is that really good for them?”
“Sure, why not? It keeps them busy so I can put in more overtime hours.”
“But is that really a good way for your kids to learn?”
“Dad, it’s not like I have a choice, you know. I can’t just go home and play with my kids. I have responsibilities. You know that.”
The man sighed again. “Yes, yes I do.”
“Oh, and before I forget: happy birthday Dad.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll try to see if I can make it next year, okay?”
“Okay.”
The old man rubbed his ears until they were red. Hot red tears stung his eyes. He dropped his cane and gasped. The pounding in his chest was deafening now. His legs wobbled as he tried to bend them down to reach his cane.
Something in his knee popped. He doubled over and fell. The dirt puffed up around him, covering him in a shroud of sand. He tried to move his left arm but couldn’t. It lay there, motionless, next to his shivering body. Right in front of him was his cane, a gift from his wife.
He thought he could hear a phone ring again. He doubted it was real, although today was his birthday and his son used to call him on his birthdays.
The pain seemed to wash away like a tide ebbing. It was enough to give him a moment of reprieve. Another memory, a recent memory, drifted into his mind.
When he left his house today, he made a birthday wish. He wished he could help his children somehow, to make amends in some way. But he didn’t know how. Until now.
Then the old man closed his eyes.
. . .
Several days later, county policemen found the body of an old man lying in a wheat field behind his house. The man was dead. The medical examiner determined the cause of death to be of natural causes, most probably a heart attack. No foul play was suspected.
The old man was survived by two sons and a daughter. Each was bequeathed a sizable inheritance, the combined sum of a life insurance payment and the remarkable property value of the land and the house. It was enough to relinquish the presumed financial difficulties of his children.
Strangely, the old man was found with a smile on his lips. In his right arm was a cane. Based on his appearance, it was believed that he died peacefully.
I notice that the snails come out onto the cement right after it rains. I’m not sure why; maybe the wet mud is too slippery for them. Or maybe they like the feel of the cold, hard cement on their tushies once in a while.
Whatever the reason, I couldn’t help watching one of them the other day. It inched along without a care in the world, leaving behind a shiny sliver of slime. And it made me wonder: wouldn’t it be great to be a snail?
Just think about it. Nowadays our lives are fast, sometimes too fast. We rush to work in the morning, rush through our lunch in the afternoon, then rush back home in the evening. Never a moment’s rest, we rush through our days like a raging river.
Then tomorrow comes and we do it all over again.
Contrast that to the snail. It crawls through its life with no worries on its back, only its shell. There are no worldly possessions for which it craves, no job for it to maintain, no rent it needs to pay. It only cares about crawling onto the cement after it rains.
I pulled out my Treo instinctively to look at tomorrow’s schedule, then caught myself. Where was this snail’s Treo? Why wasn’t it checking its schedule for tomorrow?
I crouched back down and watched its tiny antennae-like eyes bob around. Perhaps it was watching me, fearful that I might scoop it up and boil it with butter like escargot. Or perhaps, I wondered, it didn’t even know that I was watching it. Perhaps it was totally oblivious to everything around it.
A door slammed above me. I stood up and watched a neighbor and her two children run down the stairs. A little boy and a little girl burst out of the stairwell with toys in their hands. They smiled at me as they rushed by with their mom.
I waved back and grinned as the little boy jumped into a puddle, splashing his sister. His mom grabbed his arm and pulled him away as she giggled. Then she kicked some water back at him. Exasperated, their mom grabbed them both and hauled them off. Their giggles faded into the night.
I paused for a moment. Then something happened. I knelt back down and looked at the snail again. It moved only about half an inch and was still ignorant to the world around it.
So I wondered: if I didn’t have any cares in the world, like the snail, how would I appreciate something as simple as two kids jumping in puddles of water? Sure, I could go through life as slow as I wanted to, but would I really enjoy that?
Its antennae-like eyes swiveled and seemed to regard me. Then my Treo beeped, reminding me to prepare for an early morning meeting tomorrow. The snail’s eyes turned forward and it continued to slime across the cement.
Snails, I thought to myself, hardly have any cares in the world, do they? But they don’t have many joys either, it seemed. In the span of this moment, I was reminded of how wearisome life can be, by my Treo, and also how joyful life can be, by the children.
With that thought, I stood back up, turned around, and headed back to my apartment. When my Treo beeped a second time, I rushed back. Just so, when tomorrow comes, I can experience it all over again.
. . .
Do you think it would be great to be a snail?
Tap tap tap. That’s the sound of a keyboard, an instrument of the Office Music Orchestra. Phone rings, elevator dings, and cube conversations also make up this jolly arrangement.
The 101 North twisted and turned like a dizzy whirlpool. Had we driven any faster, we certainly would have added our lunch to the interior.
The vertigo was all worth it, however. As soon as we reached the base of the Point Reyes hiking trails, I noticed a different kind of music. The Office Music Orchestra was nowhere to be heard here at this scenic site.
“Hear that?” I asked Dave.
“Hear what?” He blinked and looked around. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” I smiled.
There was a calming still to the air. I felt a fresh breeze that was as refreshing as a cool shower on a humid summer day. A long sigh fell from my lips, along with all the week’s stresses.
No angry managers, no urgent meetings, no last-minute crises. No more web, no more technology, no more cubes. Only nature and its soft, gentle rhythm: the Nature Music Orchestra. Shushing leaves and whispering winds dotted with the occasional chirp.
We took to the trail. It was a well-worn dirt path traveled on by many other Silicon Valley worker bees like me.
“Don’t you wish every day was like this?” I said out loud to no one in particular.
“Yea, this is really nice,” answered Clarence.
“This is nice, but I wouldn’t want this all the time,” added Serene.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’d go nuts if life was always slow like this. This is nice once in a while, as a break from the usual hectic routine. But to do this every day for the rest of my life would drive me nuts.”
I mused on this for the remainder of the hike. The thought rolled around my tongue like a foreign delicacy. Every angle was tasted and savored.
The Work Hard/Play Hard ethic of NYC certainly left an imprint on me. Long Hours and I dated many, many times; it was a romance we cultivated on and off for years. Anyone who works for Silicon Valley knows her too, for she has many suitors.
That said, we often don’t notice an off-tune note until we’ve heard a few dozen on-tune melodies. A sunny day after a long line of cloudy ones is always met with celebration. Cold water always tastes better on a hot afternoon.
The Nature Music Orchestra was soothing indeed, but I would have never been able to appreciate its harmony had I not been subjected to the sterile sounds of the Office Music Orchestra first.
The stark reality of the value of contrasts was revealing. I smiled when it struck me.
Renewed with a deeper understanding, I took in a long, deep breath. I wanted to carry this back to the office, knowing it would help me appreciate the tap tap tap of a keyboard once again.
The Nature Music Orchestra was wonderful for its revitalizing qualities; the Office Music Orchestra had its own charms in encouraging a sense of accomplishment. I needed both of them, just as I needed sunny and cloudy days.
With another breath, I listened carefully to the music around me.
. . .
What do you hear when you hike?
“All the lonely people,
Where do they all come from.
All the lonely people,
Where do they all belong.”
- P. McCartney
You wake up but aren’t sure you want to get up. For half an hour you lay, debating the merits of the day. Finally, you push yourself up.
The world is gray with clouds. Your room is monotone. It smells old and dusty.
You thrown on comfortable clothes and grab a book. It’s a funny book and you could use a smile today. Then you leave your warm room for the chilly world outside.
You stop by a café at and order an omelet & coffee. A table near the window is free and you take it.
As you wait for your breakfast, you watch the world. A couple holding hands walks by. You watch them stroll past a young man with a dog. The couple plays with the dog and chats with the young man.
Two elderly ladies are waiting at the bus stop across the street. They’re engaged in an animated conversation. They wave their hands through the air to declare their statements. So involved are they, that they almost miss the bus when it arrives.
The omelet & coffee comes out. You can see the heat rising off the fresh coffee. You open your book and dig into your meal. Both hold firm your attention as you enter their worlds.
Occasionally, your attention is broken and you look up. A group of four is standing outside, laughing. One of them has the other three wound up in a humorous story. You catch bits and pieces of words; it’s about how his date did something funny last night. Farted? Ordered a tart? Wanted to go to K-mart?
An hour and a chapter pass. You weren’t able to follow the story well, so you make a mental note to reread the chapter. Then you exit the cafe, pick a direction, and just walk.
Bicyclists ride by. They peddle uphill and disappear over the crest. You follow them up the hill. The view of the city from up here is awe-inspiring. Little details of buildings and cars are all visible. You make a mental note to return here someday.
As you continue, you come across a larger park with generous fields of grass and ample benches. One of them is empty, so you take a seat.
A group of teenagers walks by, trailing dirty jokes and cynical commentary in their wake. They comment on the tight bodysuits of the bicyclists and how they’d rather not see the details that they can see. You can’t help but nod to yourself.
On the bench next to you is an elderly couple sitting together. The man has his wife’s hands in his. They’re chatting quietly to each other. She giggles at something he says. He beams a boyish grin and strokes her hand.
You look at your book and marvel at the people all around you, at the stories they are all writing with each other. You sigh.
Then you open up your book and enter the author’s story again, hoping that someday, you’ll get to write a story with someone too.
. . .
Have you ever felt lonely?
Hand in hand, an elderly couple strolls a few paces in front of me. I slow my walk to match their rhythm. It’s a nice, lazy Sunday and I have no reason to rush.
A breeze washes my face with the gentle aroma of flowers and foliage. The soft shush of leaves is soothing. Invisible ducks quack overhead, somewhere beyond the tops of the trees.
They take a left turn and walk towards a children’s playground. Just beyond the playground is a lake. Drawn by benches near the lake, I follow.
Young squeaks and giggles fill the air. Tiny flashes of color race excitedly around the swings and slides. Parents stand by with their bottles of water; a cautious yet cheerful vigil with a steady supply of Evian.
The couple pauses and watches the children. I see a hint of a smile on their lips. Their eyes try to follow the energy and just end up glazing over. The smiles don’t fade though.
Suddenly, his wife grasps his arm and points past the slides. A hearty chortle escapes his mouth.
Just past the slides is a merry-go-round. A tinkle of bells and music playfully surrounds it. Inside, dozens of kids swirl around, their laughter blending together like sweet cookie batter.
Her husband takes hold of her hand and pulls her towards it. She shakes her head, “No, I couldn’t possibly, that would be so embarrassing, no way…”
He persists.
“But we’re too old,” she retorts.
“No we’re not,” he declares matter-of-factly. She sighs as he leads her to the merry-go-round.
I watch them climb inside. He helps her onto a horse and then take an adjacent one. There’s a wide grin on his face and she can’t stop giggling. Kids watch on and parents smile. I think one mother even has a tear in her eye.
The ride begins and the laughter of elderly couple joins the sweet cookie batter of the kids’.
. . .
How old do you think you have to be to play on the merry-go-round?
