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Friday, 13 June 2008 |
I starting writing this on a long flight between countries in the Middle East. I hope you like it. - Micah
When I was 5 years old, I heard someone say that time goes by faster as you age.
This bothered and puzzled me. WHY does time go by faster? How can you stop it?
As
I grew older, I began noticing that this sad fact was true. Time WAS
speeding up. I was young, but I could see my youth flashing before my
eyes. If time was flying by like this NOW, what would it be like when I
turn 70? Will decades be gone in the blink of an eye? Will my whole
retirement seem like it lasts only months?
I think the sad answer is - yes. But I think I know WHY.
Time
slips by based on how much attention you pay to it. If you don't pay
attention, it's gone. If you do pay attention, moments last forever.
When you're young, everything is new. Every experience you have is
a new experience, something to be wondered at and discovered. When I
was very young, time didn't seem to pass AT ALL, because every moment
was significant. The fact that my birthday was a whole year away was
unfathomable; I was still experiencing an everlasting stretch of joy,
just licking the candles.
Licking the candles lingered as if time didn't exist. Licking the
candles was new and unique. But as I got older, experiences started
repeating themselves. I got used to a weekly routine. I got used to
travel, going to the store, watching TV, eating. I got used to Summer
and Winter. Eventually I got used to having birthday after birthday.
With familiarity comes lack of attention. And as less and less is significant, time goes by faster and faster.
Sometimes time still slows down. "Time flies when you're having fun" is actually a way of saying,
"time drags when you're miserable". When you're miserable, every little
detail of your misery pops out at you. When the bus ride is
uncomfortable, every jolt of the tires is beaten into your mind, and so
because you PAY ATTENTION, every moment is significant, and 30
minutes on the bus seems like hours.
But
for children, time always lingers. That's why children are magical.
Everything is still worthy of attention, every Summer is still new.
And therein lies our path to salvation from the loss of time. Break the routine, destroy the familiarity of the moments.
If we stop paying attention
because things become repetitive, we pay attention when things are unique. If you
take a trip you've never taken, the first few days of that trip will
stretch on and on. So have an adventure, take different routes, learn
new things, teach yourself skills, start new relationships with people. Stop repeating the same experiences over and over again.
Time is attention, and attention is about NEW. So create NEW.
But you can also slow time in the ordinary and the mundane, because
there is always more there than you know. To see it, you have to live
in the details.
Experience the texture of the carpet and the
walls. Drink in the color of mud puddles and the complex design of the
swirls of gravel in the street. Taste your food before swallowing it.
When someone talks, listen at all the levels you can. Pay attention.
Cherish the moment. Watch the details. Make this moment significant.
Experience the significance already there.
That...is how you stop time.
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Monday, 09 June 2008 |
On our trips around the globe, we meet many interesting people. Last night we met one who particularly did NOT like our style of music.
"You need to pack up and go back to Nashville," he told me as I was trying to do exactly that. "Your tempo wasn't worth a thing!"
His actual words had more emphasis, and a few choice explicatives.
In our concerts, we often play "Folsom Prison Blues" by Johnny Cash. Growing up, Dad played it all the time, and we play a rendition of the way we learned it from him. Dad is the only reason we play that song, and for the record, he likes the way we do it.
But this gentleman did NOT like the way we did it. He told us to go back and listen to the records again.
"You're in West Virginia now!" he yelled as he walked away.
Apparently West Virginia has its on special way it wants to hear Johnny Cash.
I should mention that many other West Virginians have expressed their intense love for the version we play, so I feel like this gentleman might not be representative of all West Virginians. Considering that West Virginia is the place of my birth, and the state where I first performed Johhny Cash, I feel inclined to defend my right to determine my own appropriate "West Virginia version" of Johnny Cash.
The incident reminded me of the time I stopped at a diner in Ohio, and a man there found out I was in a band from West Virginia. So he asked what style of music we played. Upon hearing that we weren't bluegrass, he proceeded to throw the F word at me and my style of music.
To me, bluegrass fans shouldn't be using extreme language. They should be sitting in their rocking chairs, drinking lemonade on a Summer day, enjoying the nice acoustic sounds of their favorite music.
Not cussing out passing rock bands.
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Friday, 30 May 2008 |
While we were in Bahrain, a small country in the Persian Gulf, our
guide took us out to eat an Arabic meal. I am glad we had a guide! The
language barrier, and the unfamiliar menu items would not have created
a great experience otherwise. But with our guide, the meal was amazing.
I want to eat Arabic right now, just thinking about it.
After that experience, our group felt like we were pretty comfortable eating in public places in Arabic countries.
So
when we were in the United Arab Emirates, and were invited to a meal,
we weren't worried at all. Despite some weirdness in the ordering
process, everything went well. Our food came, and it was reasonably
close to what we wanted.
Then came the end of the meal, and a strange gentleman in a funny
red hat came to our table. We couldn't understand his gestures, but he
began to lay very small cups in front of each of us. And like something from Willy Wonka, he tipped
his giant, convoluted, shiny silver coffeepot, and poured a
teaspoon-full of coffee in every one.
And then he waited. So we smiled and began to sip the coffee.
And he waited. Not knowing what to do, we started handing him the cups back. He began stacking them.
And still he waited.
So we thanked him, and then he thanked us, and turned. And as we
watched, he placed each of OUR cups down in front of other customers.
And they began to drink from them, without a sign of reluctance.
At
this point, all of us Americans were horrified. What strange custom was
this?! What other dishes did this restaurant not see fit to wash?
We chalked it up to a cultural misunderstanding. Until we asked some of our other Arabic acquaintances about this
custom. They too were shocked. So, um, where DID that custom come from?
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