what moves you
Isamu Noguchi, Peking Drawing (man sitting), 1930
I don’t know when I became conditioned to think about life in milestones, but that’s what I’ve always done. A fun, little paint-by-numbers game where the grand picture had already been designed from the very start.
Milestones can be a fantastic way to architect your life—breaking it down into pieces, creating opportunities for incremental dopamine hits along the way, finding joy and satisfaction when the final image is in place.
I wonder though, what happens when life becomes less certain, the big picture less clear.
For instance, there are a few milestones I’ve reached, several I haven’t, a handful I’ve only just created, and many I’ve abandoned all together. Resolute goals falter. At first the changes are small, “Maybe I’ll get married at 28 instead of 24?” One day, you suddenly ask yourself, “Do I even want to get married at all?” What was once a cornerstone of joy becomes a well of anxiety. Life begins to shift under our feet, becoming rickety and unstable.
When you have a panic attack, the first thing you must do is ground yourself. Reconnect with your senses. Stay present in the current moment.
Name one thing you see in front of you, a small figurine toy or a loose hair tie.
Name one thing you hear outside, the relentless flapping of insect wings or the rush of cars on the street.
Count your breaths, deep from the hollows of your belly rushing up to the tippy top of your head.
Touch your own skin, the ridges of your palm, the wrinkles on each knuckle.
Name three things you know to be true, the best things happen in the liminal space between sunset and night; bagels are better left un-toasted; the birthmark to the left of my belly button.
Finding joy solely in life’s milestones feels precarious. What I wanted yesterday is no longer what I want today. What I want today may no longer be what I want tomorrow. What I want may not be what I need. What I need constantly ebbs, changes, flows.
Instead, I choose to be moved by small things: things that I know about myself, things that I know will continue to happen until the end of time, things that often have nothing to do with me.
The old man who stands outside the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, seemingly always waiting for someone to arrive.
Dogs on the subway.
Wong Kar-wai films, even though only a month ago I thought they were terribly kitschy.
That one fountain in the outdoor garden at the Noguchi museum.
Patches of sun meeting the curve of a table umbrella.
I’m not at all advocating for abandoning goals entirely. They are tools that steady us, keep us going. But I also believe that the practice of being moved should have no preconditions, that it happens at the most momentous of life's occasions, as well as the most mundane; that springs of joy can be found in driest of places.
I wish to constantly move and be moved.