Human life is a miracle. Take this couple, for example. They each started their existence as a miraculous thing we call a "cell": a microscopic living bag of water which can reproduce itself. Over almost a year of inconceivably complex growth, these two single cells became a human beings, and then were born... breathing, crying, moving, and already endowed with infinite intelligence and power. They learned how to walk, falling time after time, but never entertaining the thought that balancing upright on two feet was impossible, until they walked almost without effort. They learned to speak, imitating their parents one word at a time, until communicating complex thoughts was easy. Perhaps, as they grew older, they shared the joy of having children together. And then, on a sunny and pleasant fall afternoon, their miraculous adventure of life ended abruptly. They found their final resting place together: their smart phones. They became dead to the world around them.
I caught the photo above on an absolutely gorgeous afternoon in a charming mountain town near our home in the Blue Ridge mountains. The sky was crystal blue, fresh mountain air blew in the gentle wind around us. Delicious sweet and smoky smells from restaurants wafted past us. Dappled sunlight filtered through the orange leafed trees, dancing shadows onto the ground. Children darted around on cobblestone sidewalks as their parents walked slightly behind. I took in this blissful scene from my seat at an outdoor cafe. My attention came around to the couple pictured above as they sat on a nearby bench. These two were dead... casualties of technology. I might have assumed that they were sharing their experiences with distant loved ones... except that I had run into this same couple twice already, with the man staring down at his ironically named “connected device” as he was walking, and the woman grasping her phone in one hand and his sleeve in another. Nope, they were goners.
I could beat the dead horse of statistics like: 1 out of 4 car accidents are caused by texting; or children spend 15 minutes outside but 4 hours daily on electronic devices; or that autism, attention deficit disorder, and obesity are reaching epidemic levels. But this afternoon, as I watched the two above, statistics didn't matter to me. I was struck by one thing: the simple loss of human life that I saw. The people pictured above, might as well have been dead. All around, life in vibrant glory bustled on this sunny Sunday afternoon. And these two were sitting there in their physical bodies, yet their consciousness was far, far away. By the way, I am not judging them. In fact, what I saw in them was poignant to me exactly because I succumb to their plight daily myself. Nevertheless, I was captivated by the two of them. Why would they volunteer this wondrous life moment away, instead choosing to stare blankly into electronic black holes of attention? All around, life continued. Sadly, they were oblivious to all of it.
Living at the Speed of Life
Later that evening, my wife and I were witness to another spectacle: a mountain sunset. As dramatic as the photo above is, we agreed that it didn't hold a candle to the glory that we beheld with our eyes in that moment. It was beauty beyond words, so we just tried to soak it in. I recalled the couple that had made me pause earlier that afternoon, and why seeing them become digital zombies had affected me so much. I am certainly not in any position to judge them, as the "screen time report" on my iPhone reveals that I enjoy screen glow at least 3 hours a day. As I bathed in the purple-orange light of the setting sun, the only sound was the gentle breeze blowing leaves on the hillside in front of us. It was a remarkable moment of just being present, in awe, of the magnificent scene unfolding. As we watched the sun set for the better part of an hour, I sat resting my hand on my beloved dog Zimbo's head. I reflected on the deep love that Zimbo and I have shared with each other for the past 10 years, and noted how much my friend has slowed down over the past few months. We are both getting older, but he is aging much faster than I. A moment later I was overtaken by a sense of sadness about the inevitable loss of my constant companion Zimbo in the coming years, and I felt an aching in my chest. The gentle warmth I felt from his head began to feel more like the pain of touching a hot stove, and I withdrew my hand. I finally understood why the couple chose to stare at their phones instead of engaging each other and living in the present moment that was available to them.
The flip side of the magnificence of our existence is the suffering to which we become vulnerable when we fully embrace life.
All of this life is temporary. That means that ANYTHING that we appreciate will eventually go away. And the more we appreciate something, the more potential suffering we feel when it goes away. It's easier to immerse ourselves in things that we know, deep down, don't matter to our souls. So we distract ourselves with material things, social media, or the pursuit of recognition and monetary success. It's a great strategy to avoid pain. In this way, one can fritter away an entire lifetime without actually being alive. Decades can blow by in a blink as we scroll down or swipe left. So what is the answer here?
Each Moment, Each Breath.
I have spent decades studying and practicing in the medical field. It may come as a surprise that I don't find any redeeming answers in my field. Instead, I keep returning to this simple theme:
Each moment, each breath.
Every breath we take is an opportunity to return to this moment. And as long as we are breathing, we can take advantage of this opportunity. At times when anxiety or depression takes hold, when all feels lost, or even when the exhilaration of a new discovery or accomplishment overwhelms us... returning to this simple mantra can ground us and allow us to fully live the moment, without clinging to it. Just as the breath passes, the moment too will pass. But that does not make either of them any less vital or beautiful. The sadness, the bliss, the exuberation, the pain... all of it goes better with careful attention to the breath. And meditative practices (Yoga, Tai Chi, Meditation) are nothing other than practice to reinforce attention to the breath.
I challenge you to deploy this tool the next time you feel the urge to check out and power up your "smart" device. Breathe into the moment, and embrace it.
Faramarz Hidaji, M.D.
Pictured above: the author and Zimbo doing what both of them love to do.
Postscript
This is a reprint of a post published two years ago. Sadly, Zimbo passed at the ripe age of 13 a few months after I first published this post. It was a very difficult event for me, as he had been my best friend and constant companion ever since he was a puppy. During the last few weeks of his life, we knew that his passing was imminent. He was starting to stumble and sometimes appeared confused. He died peacefully at 2 am in my loving wife's arms in our home. I was out of town working, but I drove 7 hours to get home that morning, and my wife and I buried Zimbo together, on the hill that he loved to hike to with us. I have been fortunate not to lose many close friends or relatives in my life. I can tell you that, as painful the experience was at the time, we have moved through the loss. In fact, I still feel Zimbo's presence with me daily. As I write this, I can feel him sitting right here watching me. The moments that we shared are NOT lost. The message he has for me?
Live and love fearlessly.
Zimbo and Jill enjoy a sunset on the hill that we named after him when he passed.