I was still deep in my conundrum (another of my favorite words!) yesterday and because the wind was screaming around at jet engine proportions, my riding partner and I decided to go for tea and bagels.
Dressed in our finest, grubby, winter barn clothes, we sat in a sunny corner of a restaurant and just talked. Communication. Remember that time when even a phone call meant you had to give your full attention because you were tethered to that giant box on the wall in the kitchen?
All this communication, through the blog posts and talking, started me thinking about what it looks like to be happy. It’s the very personal connection that I have with life today. The senses are all tied to it. You have to look someone in the eye which leads to watching their body language and the subtle changes in the environment around both of you. You can’t get that in a text message.
I called an old colleague to ask for some corporate intelligence and a reference. He was out of the office for the afternoon but I was told he could be reached on email. Tethered to a wall? I think the wall just got bigger.
Back to my original humbling event. I put my thoughts and fears out on the Internet, publicised it to a relatively known audience of friends and family. It spread beyond, opening the water like the ice leaving a lake in spring. Friends of friends emailed, old friends called, people related to the dilemma.
It occurs to me that if we don’t use one of the three ways known to Man to communicate; verbal as in the telephone, face-to-face, or written words how little do we relate to the world around us? The case could be made that texting and emailing are writing. I would argue that all emotion gets stripped out of those two vehicles. Texting and emailing are like a slick convertible. You glide down the beautiful country roads but don’t see beyond the landscape. If you took the time to walk those same roads, you would experience the conversation with nature. Blue sky can be seen but bird calls and leaves crackling must be heard. The sun can be felt on your face, but the touch of a stone or a stick you idly hold as you walk is active feeling.
So I write. I walk down that road with a stick in one hand, listen to the birds, and smile while that shiny convertible that I thought was life roars past.