Occasionally I share some personal thoughts when traveling or exploring new places. It helps me to think about who I am, achieve greater self-awareness, and know what to do and where to go next. This time, it’s from Greece.
Life seems to progress with its twists and turns at such a rapid pace at the moment that anything that I do end up thinking seems to become irrelevant or altered the following week. Hence, writing becomes a process of continuous change and adaptation before actually putting pen to paper, and not a task of forming the feelings and thoughts in my mind using words that others can understand.
But, to start myself off here in Greece I have decided to put that pen to paper, and begin the writing journey with something not so difficult — and not the somewhat overwhelming task of writing a novel. This blog is thus an entry point to the thoughts and feelings and ideas that I have at the moment, and a way of hopefully getting the writing movements flowing.
Upon arriving in the village I was struck by the lack of noise, the lack of people, the emptiness of the streets and the slow, laid-back pace of life in the village. There are not many tourists at the moment, seemingly owing to the ongoing global pandemic, but despite this there is still a sense of life and a local community here which I am beginning to get to know. This emptiness, and this space, is exactly what one needs to be able to think independently of the stresses and troubles of everyday life in a big city. A kind of distance is provided to that which we call ‘real life’ which causes me to wonder whether this open and free life is not more real than the one I lead in the city.
I have only been here for a couple of days, but there is always a moment each day where I am overwhelmed by my own happiness. I feel what it’s like to be happy, not because of a small, instantaneous pleasure that quickly dies, but because of the life that I am living and the thoughts that I am having and the world in which I am living. I am not happy because of something that is not there: I was happy in Paris because I was not amongst the fear and anxiety of NZ’s response to coronavirus; I was happy in New Zealand because I was not confined by myself in a small apartment in the centre of a large city with limited access to nature… Here, I am happy because I have things. I have breath, I have air flowing through my lungs and touching my cheeks and blowing my pages all over the stones: I laugh with myself. I have the feeling of my bare feet touching the sand, touching the marble floors of the house, touching the dusty terrace outside. I can feel these things again not because I don’t have other stimulus that are stronger, but because these stimuli are the ones that are immediately within my reach and are those that remind me of the very feeling of being.
A couple of years ago I heard about a type of philosophy called the ‘philosophy of what it feels like to be alive.’ A philosophy of vitality, if you will. It’s something that I’ve always wanted to participate in and write something about, because the feeling of vitality is something that I have, but do not know how to bring about. I cannot simply perform some action or go somewhere and ‘end up’ feeling alive. This is, of course, despite the fact that I am alive all the time (thus far) and, it would seem sensible to suggest, feel alive whatever emotional state I am in. But this is not the case. To really feel alive is to feel something much more than to just feel. It is to feel a vitality of sensation, of ability, of power, of space and of a full horizon in front of you, and that is not something that you feel every day. To feel alive is an emotion in itself, separate from all others and completely overtaking one’s whole disposition, or way of being in the world. I can say to myself: I am alive. I feel alive. This is living. I don’t say that in the boulangerie when ordering a croissant or in the bank when withdrawing money. But I do say it here.
I wonder what it means to be inspired by something. I think a lot of people are inspired by nature or by other people or by art. I want to be inspired to the point of feeling like I am about to tip off the edge of the earth; I want that kind of inspiration that changes one’s whole composition and world view, that changes everything and that leads me exactly where I am going. I am not empty, but I want to be filled with something, to experience what it’s like to be captivated by a divine entry into oneself, and to be lifted up, to know, to be.
We seek more and more every day, and we call this, somewhat stupidly, progress. I am not seeking progress, rather I am seeking a vital breath that leads the way and that, without any doubt, shows me that I am doing the right thing. Throughout this year I have been plagued by doubt and by questions of circumstance: where will I live? Will I have enough money? What will I do? How can I actualise myself in this world? Who wants my skills? How can I use them? How can I make sure I do good? How can I help? Questions no doubt reflective of the time of life I inhabit, and the social system in which I am but an emerging bud, with new shoots off the stem in all directions, but no clear pathway.
I want a pathway. I don’t want to know where it leads but I want to be going: somewhere, anywhere. And yes, it takes a step to get going along a path: ancient wisdom of simplicity can tell me this, but which step to take when the path seems to resemble a square with no clear exit? And which exit to use when they don’t point anywhere?
Some might say that I’m seeking a God: an all-knowing reason, an explanation for the world that shows me where I’m going and reassures me of my convictions. Others may say, rather existentially, that I am seeking a way to make a decision about how to live my life and actualise myself because it is in fact all up to me. Others yet may say I am stuck as a victim of a system of capitalist identity where I no longer identify with the structures around which I live and end up alienated and illusioned. All may be right, or perhaps they are all wrong.
To act has been my most difficult challenge recently. How can I do something? It’s not what I am doing, but the mere fact of doing it that I cannot come to terms with. I am in an inertia of thought and idealism, where I live in a world which doesn’t end up corresponding to the one that others seem to experience. I talk to myself and I have great conversations without leaving my head; without saying a word to the rest of the world. So how do I say something to the rest of the world? How do I break out of the bubble of inner living and present something radical, something shocking, something something? How do I present being, how do I actualise life, my life, and my way of considering the world?
I am, I realise, offering paragraph upon paragraph of questions, because this is all I seem to have. Maybe I should sell questions to people: capitalise my questioning ability and if you pay $5 you can get a question that you will never find the answer to. I’m sure people would buy it: they buy everything nowadays.
Coming to Greece has awakened a feeling within me of vitality and existence, but also revealed more possibilities to the questions I pose here. These are not things that will disappear, but rather things that remain stuck to me; sometimes with greater intensity and importance, other times as a low hum in the background.
I am scared of being stuck to things. When I don’t like something, I feel it stick to me with a glue so stretchy it will never break. When there is a situation I don’t like, the glue attaches itself to me and wherever I go, I feel myself stretching the glue more and more and not being able to remove it. When I feel I don’t like someone, the glue attaches us even more as they look at me, talk to me… I’m scared of being stuck to things. ‘Are my feet made for running or endurance?’, a wise friend once asked: mine endure, whilst running. I stick it out whilst trying to leave, I am there whilst not being there.
Alas, maybe I should write something about travel, given this is supposed to be a travel blog. I could tell you that I have been going to the beach every day, lying in the sun, having a small swim among the fish, eating feta cheese and drinking absolutely disgusting homemade wine which I’m sure will cause someone to go blind sometime soon because it smells like straight alcohol and not wine.
I’ve been for walks, too: I walked from Lefkes where I am staying, down the Byzantine trail to Prodromos, and then down the road to Logaras beach. I think that will be a daily ritual: walking the 7km track to the beach, cooling off in the water, then catching the public bus back. It’s a refreshing and energising way to spend a couple of hours, and is probably contributing to the feelings of vitality I have at the moment.
What is on my travel agenda, one might ask? I don’t feel like doing that much, really… I want to explore this island completely, probably take a trip one day to Antiparos, and one day to Naxos, and other than that, focus on what I came here to do: write!
Τα λέμε!
Jack Goldingham Newsom is the Chief Objektioner and Founder of the Objektion Project. We help people, social enterprises, and volunteer organisations to carry out their mission more effectively by challenging current ways of thinking, and developing new frameworks to support their vision.
Looking for a thinker, or have a problem? Get in touch!
Like what you’ve read and want to support more thinking? Buy me a coffee using the link below!
