Drifting and existing

I have no idea what I saw. I wasn’t paying attention. (Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20)

A recent travel experience did not go as I expected.

I did not discover until I was in the air that the twenty-four hours of flight ahead of me would be without Internet.

Once back on the ground, I suffered the worst jet lag I’ve ever experienced — multiple nights of lying awake for hours at a stretch, longing desperately for sleep.

By my return trip home, I had improved in my ability to sit (or lie) quietly and do nothing. Maybe sleep would come in a given moment, maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe I’d have access to entertainment and the ability to concentrate on it, and maybe not. It didn’t matter — I was just drifting and existing. Another twenty-four hours of flying and a five-hour bus ride. It would end eventually, just like a sleepless night.

I have always been a good sleeper. What’s more, I’ve always been able to make use of travel time and its interstices to get meaningful work done: writing, sending emails, making plans, ideation.

But on this trip, my poor sleep had a compounding effect. I couldn’t sleep, so I couldn’t think. And because I couldn’t think, I couldn’t work. All I could do was sit there.

This became a valuable lesson in the acceptance of reality. I didn’t expend any effort trying to make good use of my time. I just breathed, ate, and gazed at nothing, like a cat.

As a human, I have a tendency to want to make meaning out of my experiences. What does it mean to travel halfway around the world only to spend most of my time feeling pretty out if it? What can I conclude from my hours of nothing?

I don’t have a lot of distance from the situation yet, but I’m mostly sure the answer is nothing.

I believe I’ve grown from the experience because I believe we grow from every experience. Beyond that, I don’t think it matters.

I didn’t spend my weekend doing fun things and making memories. I spent it in a succession of metal boxes (with a good bit of standing around waiting to enter each subsequent metal box). Each moment was indistinguishable from the one before, making memories irrelevant.

After the last flight landed, I looked back across the cabin. My fellow passengers were gathering their belongings and antsy to disembark. It was impossible to conceive of the fourteen hours we’d spent in the air together. In my mind, it had compressed to just a few minutes.

This seems to be a merciful aspect of being human. All that time spent waiting tables and studying for exams, gone. All the agony of illness or insomnia, disappeared. I remember that it happened, but I can’t relive it except as a snapshot or two.

Sometimes, we are released from those experiences with something to show for it: Work product complete, payment rendered. New skill mastered. But sometimes, the evidence of the time we spent is simply our continued presence on the planet, and that’s it.

I’d like to think that my state of suspended animation will be followed by an outpouring of creative work and ideas. Chances are, though, it will be followed by another period of jet lag and less-than-optimal mental performance as I recover. And then, once that happens, I’ll forget most of what it was like, with little in the way of long-term benefit.

On the other hand, I do have an increased confidence in myself as a result of my experiences. I know that I can survive without the Internet (always good to confirm). I can make it through sleep deprivation and even find the energy to do a brief presentation amidst the fog. I can deal with being alone with my thoughts for long periods at a time. These are helpful things to know.

I’ll be returning to my accustomed level of activity today. Why not? But there will be a time — maybe even this afternoon or late tonight, jet-lagged again — when I’ll return to that quiet, low-stimulation state of drifting and existing. It’s nice to have it in the toolkit. And if I need to stay there for awhile, it’s nice to know that I can. I’ve got it in me.