I paused the other day for the first time in what felt like a long time to watch a bird. He hopped up to a perch in the understory, tilted his head back, and belted out an enormous warble. He was a Carolina Wren, a species known for impressively loud vocals and comfortability around humans, which makes them one of my favorite birds to watch. He continued to call on and off for a few minutes, pausing to listen for replies and scratch his neck. I watched and sketched his poses on a pocket notebook. After a few minutes he flew off to pick bugs out of the leaf litter.
It had been a while since I paused to drink in the present moment like that. My usual techniques for recording like journaling, sketching, and photography, have all been collecting dust. I’ve been thinking about the future a lot lately—where I’m going to live, what I’m going to do, the logistics of all of it—and it has me easing into auto-pilot mode where tasks become routine and the subtleties of the present moment are ignored.
I’ve come to realize that falling out of step with the present is a state of mind that can sneak up on me wherever I am. I look back to places I’ve traveled and jobs I’ve had that felt like the dream set up, and even when the setting was its most idyllic I still ruminated about the past and worried about the future. I justified those distractions by focusing on the impermanence of my situations. I’ll only be in Costa Rica for six months, I reasoned, so does it really make sense to invest in the community here? Or, I’ll only live in this house for a year, so is it really necessary to put up a bird feeder?
The answer, of course, is yes; it’s always worth it to invest in community. Plant some trees. Put up that bird feeder. Get to know the people around you. Because in the end isn’t that what makes a life—just a bunch of weeks and months and years added up together? Temporary is the only kind of time there is, and if you’re waiting for real life to start, it already has.
It’s easy to write about this stuff, but putting it into action is hard. Being present takes focus, and it takes opening yourself up to thoughts and feelings that are potentially uncomfortable or difficult to hold onto. It’s much easier to stay in the auto-pilot mode, do what’s needed to get by day to day, and ease into a general numbness.
So to practice being present I went on a hike and took my notepad. I paid attention to the wren singing his heart out, and I thought about the quality of the sound and laughed at the goofiness of a bird scratch itself. I noticed the humidity in the air, appreciated the buzzing sound of mosquitos, and resisted the impulse to swat at the first one that bit me (though I promptly squashed it after about five seconds). I watched the river flow by.
It felt good to be aware. It seemed right to notice the rest of the world, and how my body responded to it and felt. I’m realizing now that even when it comes to mosquito bites, I’d rather be aware of the itch than wishing it was winter, wishing I was somewhere else. Even though it’s uncomfortable, the itch is a reminder that I’m part of something bigger, connected to a larger whole, all playing itself out here, right now.
Jon Gorter (‘17) graduated from Calvin with degrees in English and environmental studies and holds an MS in natural resources from the University of Michigan. He enjoys fly fishing, mushroom foraging, and waterfall scrambling near his home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.
