As I sat in a pub last night, I was reflecting on a realization that was brought to my attention during a journey I had in Amsterdam two years ago. I was watching the film, "Almost Famous" in my hotel room. There is this powerful scene in the movie, where one of the central characters, William Miller (played by Michael Angarano), is an aspiring, 15 year old writer for the Rolling Stone magazine. He is miles from home on a tour bus, (writing an article), with the musicians and crew of a fictional band called Stillwater. He feels disconnected and homesick. After a night where the band almost splits apart, William, sitting next to the adored Penny Lane (played by the lovely Kate Hudson), turns toward her, in a somewhat panicked state, and says, "I have to go home." Penny, with the wisdom of the Buddha, flashes her fingers before William's eyes, and says, "You are home."
As I finished that last paragraph, I re-watched the aforementioned scene. Again, it aroused me to tears. You are home. Never were truer words spoken. Home is where we are, for we are with ourselves wherever we travel. Both on my trip to Amsterdam and presently on this trip to York, this insight is apt to my current thoughts. I remind myself of this truth, especially when I am traveling alone.
Sitting in the pub, I started to write in one of my notebooks. I've been working on an essay about death. It's been quite an arduous task. I spend more time looking around, trying to find the right words, than I actually do in writing on paper. But then again, does not life hold the same veracity? Is not the struggle for brilliance, insight, or growth seemingly always greater than the outcome itself?
While surveying the room, I noticed, at a distance, the general pattern of the wallpaper that covered all three walls. Nothing brilliant about it (from a distance), but I was in the mood to inspect it further, closer. When I got close I was laughably stunned by the detailed art that contributed to the larger composition. It was sketches of randy behavior; tiny bodies and body parts were engaged in multiple acts of copulation and/or nudity. It was rather brilliantly disguised in the patterned wallpaper. The paper clothed the wall with nudity.
Sometimes the overall experience of this life appears drab, at best. We forget or ignore the fine details that give richness to the pattern. Days blend into days, weeks into weeks, years into years, until we are dead. How much more flushed would our lives be if we could, at times, appreciate the smaller composites that inflame our minutes and hours?
There is a balance between seeing the whole and inspecting the sum of its part. The key word, though, is balance. Art consistently reminds me of this weighted game. Last year in Prague, I had the opposite experience to the one that I enjoyed last night. I was in an art museum, too close to a painting I was viewing. It looked like mumble jumble of modern art. On my second trip, however, that same painting that disagreed with my senses upon first view penetrated me with a different interpretation. I stood at a greater distance, and saw the painting from a new perspective. I realized that I was too close the first time around. At close proximity, the details looked blurry and incoherent, almost senseless. On my revisit to that piece, two facts became clear: it was an Impressionistic piece, (not modern art), and the overall painting was gorged with ecstasy and pleasure. This was quite pleasurable to my senses.
The personal lessons from both my experiences above are clear: With one hand, I need to find pleasure and stimulation in the small details of my life, as I live it right now; the other hand must hold the panoramic lens that captures the entirety of my journey, not just the jumbled noise within confined spaces.
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