Rediscovering Awe: An Inconvenient Truth

Having wanted to see the film, An Inconvenient Truth, desparately since it came out this past summer, I was ecstatic when it was shown on my bus ride home for Christmas break. Even after all the hype, I still think it was one of the best, and arguably most important, documentaries I have ever seen. However, I'm not, as you may have expected, going to proceed with a review of the film, in which I would inevitably just gush about how much I’ve loved Al Gore since before I was old enough to vote, or how well the documentary functions as a call to action. Others have already done that, and much better than I have. Plus, most of you have probably already seen it and know these things anyway. Instead, I’m going to talk about something which you may not know. About me.

Outer space makes me cry.


Allow me to elaborate.

I’m not much of a crier. Yeller, yes; crier, no. It’s not that I don’t find a good cry carthetic, or that I am an unemotional person -- quite the contrary. However, when I’m in distress, my reaction is often to attack the problem, either by blowing up in anger or by spending several hours pacing and talking to myself until I have constructed a plan of action by which the distressing situation may be sorted out. Only when confronted with an extreme feeling of helplessness do I feel moved to shed tears, and that just doesn’t happen very often. Therefore, for me crying is more frequently the result of being moved then being sad -- perhaps by love or music or stories or dance, those kinds of things. Even then, this extreme type of reaction is a rare occurrence; I’m so involved with the arts on a daily basis that I’m a pretty tough critic, and being moved to tears by a performance is a response many are not worthy of.

However, there is one thing that can almost always trigger my tear ducts, and that is the sight of our universe.

Since childhood, I have always been overwhelmed with awe in the presence of the stars; my evolving relationship with the night sky has been a more mind-warping and intangible one than that with my constant, close-knit companion, the ocean. With the ocean, I feel kinship borne from a lifetime of shared memories, combined with a deep respect for its beauty and a healthy dose of humility at its power. We can feel each other in a primitive, earthy way - whenever I wander too far from its presence I sense its distance, and upon my return its salt is reabsorbed voraciously into my skin as if its very scent is a critical component to my being.

The stars, however, are completely different. Rather than a solid presence, they are elusive, and heartbreakingly mysterious. Where I can allow the sea salt to absorb me, the stars I can only reach out with desperate hands and pretend to grasp. When I stand on the beach, like a tamer before a roaring lion, I embrace my insignificance. But when in the presence of the cold, static world of the stars, like a pauper begging for acknowledgment from his king, I am overcome by it. Much like a child who wants to impossibly play among the fluffy clouds, the beauty and awesomeness of space is coupled with the frustration of wanting something so badly and knowing, beyond a doubt, that it is not yours to have (yes, I wanted to be an astronaut for most of my early life). That potent mix of charged emotions is overwhelming, and my reaction to them is very visceral.

I cry.

So, when Al Gore opened his slide show of An Inconvenient Truth by showing my favorite space photo of all time -- Earthrise -- coupled with a small, crude video shot of our perfectly colored little orb spinning relentlessly in the incomprehensible vacuum of the universe, I found myself crying. And not just a little bit -- almost uncontrollably in the middle of the bus. And this time, it was not just for myself and what I saw, but for the other millions of eyes which looked and saw nothing. You see, to me, when faced with such an image, how could anyone not be moved to work, as hard as they can, to preserve that impossible perfection?

Some people talk of religion being about harps and wings and power and politics, but for me, this is God: a single, spinning globe, which, for all the intents and purposes, should not exist. The possibility that Jesus actually rose from the dead has nothing on this proven miracle.

So what does my capacity for becoming emotionally unhinged when confronted with constellations have to do with the very real threat of climate change?

Arguably, everything.

You see, I’m in touch with something many of us have lost sight of: the human ability to be awed. It may sound simplistic. You may think, “I’m in awe of things all the time.” Hell, “awesome” is one of the most overused words in the English language, and writers use “awe-inspiring” to describe everything from Hollywood performances to charitable acts. In fact, pop culture uses “awe” so often it has nearly lost all meaning. “Awesome” was word which originally referred to those things which where fear-inducing in their impressiveness. To be awed was to have an emotional and spiritual experience of Biblical proportions - one which changed your view of yourself and the world around you.

Therefore, a pizza cannot be “awesome.” Peter Jackson's cinematography in Lord of the Rings cannot be “awe-inspiring.” Unfortunately, in our flashy, fast-paced society, our senses have become dulled to the extent that we either have difficulty separating the truly awesome from the mundane, or we are so caught up in the whirlwind of daily existence that we haven’t taken enough time to notice all the truly awe-inspiring things which exist in life . . . at least not on such a fundamentally emotional level. And the result has been that we are no longer humbled by these feelings.

As Al Gore said in An Inconvenient Truth, the problem of climate change goes beyond politics, beyond nations, to a deeper sense of morality. Any threat to our planet is a threat to us all, and to do nothing to protect ourselves is, at the very least, suicide. However, I believe this inaction is a symptom of a problem which goes far beyond global warming. As a species, we have forgotten awe. We have forgotten humility in the presence of what we, in our outstandingly infinate luck, have been given. Instead, we take it upon ourselves to dictate how the world should, will, and does function, without much thought for the consequences our actions have upon that body. Even when faced with the very real threat of extinction, we muddle ourselves in nationalism, in economics, in politics, in religion, and in power, when what we need to do is get off our soapboxes and be. . .well, AWED.

If we could do that. . . if we look, really look at our world - at our oceans, our forests, or plains, our animals, our PEOPLE, we would see its beauty. If we take the time to understand the science of that beauty -- how we came to be, how we are made -- all the cosmic balances which had to come out just so in order to create it -- we would understand the true meaning of the word, “miraculous.” And, if we then looked out, to the unforgiving universe beyond, we could begin to embrace our insignificance, and learn to respect the powers that could destroy us. Only then could we, as a species, truly commit to maintaining that precious balance which, beyond all reason, allows us to survive.

Now that would be awesome.

It’s A Wonderful . . . Lie?

Having begun my post-collegiate, post-grad school life about three months ago, I, along with many of my peers, have been struggling with the dreaded Quarter-Life Crisis. Although I don’t think any of us expected to become instant successes, I don’t think we were particularly prepared for feeling so directionless, so unaccomplished, and so, well, lonely.

Yes, we expected to be poor for while we fought for survival at the bottom rung of a field we loved - one which we were willing to pay our dues in. No, we were not ready, after years of academic success at the country’s top schools, to find ourselves in pointless, dead-end jobs any high-school dropout could master which barely pay the rent and make us want to put out our eyes from boredom. Yes, we expected things wouldn’t be as fun as in college, especially now that our friends were flung far and wide instead of living upstairs or next door. No, we weren’t ready find ourselves completely isolated, going to bed at 9 PM so we could wake up at the crack of dawn for that dead-end job we hate, and spending our weekends making ends meet by working at that second dead-end job we hate even more.

When our hard-earned education feels so useless, I know I can’t help but feel cheated as I send off my minimum student loan payment ($140) that I can’t afford to spare towards a $45,000 debt which, at this rate, won’t be paid off until several millennia after I’m dead.

It all leaves us wondering, Is this IT?

Obviously, I refuse to believe that. Maybe I’m just young and optimistic; I AM the girl who’s favorite saying is “The world is bound and determined to turn me into a hopeless cynic. Well, fuck that.” But still, as much as I feel the outside and internal pressure to have a plan, a goal more specific than “to be successful, give back to society, and eventually get married and start a family,” an answer to the question, “so, what do YOU do?” I refuse to dive into something I’m not passionate about. Tons of Dartmouth grads jump onto the corporate recruiting bandwagon their senior year just to have a plan, an answer. . . and end up miserable five years down the road, dependent on their paychecks and too afraid of uncertainty to quit. I may have a horrible dumbass job, but if I leave tomorrow to pursue a whim that doesn’t work out, I can always find an equally horrible dumbass job.

It’s a twisted form of freedom, I suppose.

But how do I find that thing which will eventually lead me out of the dumbass cycle? Where is my passion, and how do I go out and get it? Why haven’t I gotten it already?

Does it have my mailing address?

After agonizing over this for some time, I’ve discovered that the answer is equally simple and difficult: do nothing. Wait. See what happens.

A questionable plan, understandably. When I explained this to one of my friends, his response was, “It’s my opinion that it's hard work which is rewarded with cold hard money, not Providence.”

But this is a world which does not (regardless of whether or not it SHOULD) regularly reward hard work, skill, and knowledge so much as it tends to reward people who are in the right place at the right time -- whether it be by simply being born into the right family (such as Paris Hilton or George W. Bush, although I wouldn’t count either as being particularly “successful”), falling into a position recently vacated, winning a contest (be it the Lottery or American Idol), or making a lucky contact by sheer happenstance. Even creating a successful innovation hinges upon the timing -- is society ready to embrace your idea, or are you a decade too early. . . or too late?

Although I’ve worked hard to achieve many accomplishments in my life thus far, many of my recent moves forward have nevertheless been the result of sheer luck:

* I stopped by the reference section of my local library looking for help researching my grad school thesis, which happened to be along the same lines as a book they were publishing, so the library asked me to write a few chapters for them in exchange, and BAM! I get my first publication credit.

* I write two articles for the grad program’s magazine, and the editor-in-chief invites me to fill her position when she graduates the next month. I say yes and run with it, and BAM! I've got an awesome internship.

* I get a random bulletin e-mail about a literary agent looking for a manuscript reader, and I respond. She randomly picks a name (no resumé, no nothing), by sheer luck picks me, and BAM! I've got a good connection and a nice part-time job.

* I randomly get paired with a housemate who knows a publishing company looking for someone to work on a special project dealing with writing and theater, and drops she my name. . . meanwhile, a guy I took a class with works for a publishing company locally and mentions my name, and . . . I don’t know. This was this morning, and I haven’t e-mailed them back yet.

At any rate, my point is that my life has certainly not been a straightway road, and parts of it are really disappointing and frustrating, and the uncertainly is horribly stressful. But at the same time, I have no idea what is just around the corner, and these are situations I simply cannot plan for. In fact, it might undermine me to overplan.

Because of this, I think that there IS a certain amount of waiting involved. You can’t set out of make your life happen any more than you can go out one night and decide beforehand to fall in love. In fact, drawing out a roadmap for life and trying to adhere strictly to it is probably the best way to set yourself up for failure -- because you’ve refused to consider that what’s thrown at you isn’t up to you at all. You’re just swinging at the pitches with as much skill and might as you can muster.

In hindsight, I’m sure this time will seem very liberating, even exciting. Sometimes, in between nervous breakdowns and wanting to smash my head on the counter of my boring-ass stupid job, it’s exciting right now!

I’m not saying, however, that you should just sit around and wait for a life to fall into your lap any more than you can fall in love if you spend your evenings watching Comedy Central and eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Obviously, when you see something you want you should go after it -- sheer tenacity has gotten me just as far as good fortune on many occasions.

However, this doesn’t work if you don’t KNOW what you want in the first place. Hence, the waiting.

For instance, once I was given the magazine internship, I’ve worked my ass off to revamp the entire thing, hire a new staff, do layout, fight with finances, manage fundraising, deal with publishing contracts, etc. Hard work is very rewarding when you know you have a goal you’d like to achieve. But it's the in-between place, when your only goal is to FIND a goal to pursue, that eats you alive.

Again, perhaps it is sheerly my naiveté which allows me to sunnily think that everything happens the way it’s meant to happen . . . something I generally believe.

The cynics among us will laugh. They will say that this all can be summed up in one phrase: life is hard.

Well, I guess, although I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about life that way. Dealing with problems is difficult, sure; learning to cope with various levels of physical or emotional stress is a challenge we all face. However, if you asked me to pick five, ten, probably even fifty words to describe the gift of our first-world industrialized life on Earth, I don’t think “hard” would be in there. I haven’t had a perfect life any more than anybody else, but I refuse to give up on the belief that everything will be okay in the end.

I’m not a huge Star Wars fan, but Yoda’s words of wisdom in The Empire Strikes Back were pretty significant:

Luke: “I don’t believe.”
Yoda: “That is why you fail.”

As soon as you start thinking negatively, you’ve already failed -- it doesn’t matter what the task at hand is, whether it is finding your life’s path or raising a fighter ship from a swamp.

But sometimes we just need someone to commiserate with, and unfortunately, our twenties tend to be pretty damn lonely. Even talking to friends over the phone is depressing when they are as frustrated and miserable as you are, while your parents don't quite get why their instant success (let's see, parents married at age 21/23, bought first house at age 23/25. . .) hasn't rubbed off on you. So what do you do?

Well, I turned to a book. It's A Wonderful Lie: 26 Truths About Life In Your Twenties, edited by Emily Franklin is not the answer to our problems, but it did make me feel a hell of a lot less alone. Written by thirtysomething women reflecting on how they survived (or barely survived) the decade which is supposed to be pinnacle of life on Earth, It's A Wonderful Lie is at once you in a nutshell and a lot worse off than you are. But more than that, it makes me feel like Pollyannaish or not, everything will be okay. . . eventually.

In the meantime, at least the horrible dumbass job is great for finding good books.