Off the Grid: Contemplation as an endangered species

I believe it is true that some places in this world are more contemplative than others. Prison, for example, seems to birth a great deal of philosophy, some of it even good. Equally, though with less chain link, Maine seems to inspire thought and word. Aside from its ability to turn out a fair number of incredible writers from Stephen King to Harriet Beecher Stowe, its neighboring states harbored names like Thoreau, Alcott, Whittier, Frost, Hawthorne, Bradstreet. Being here, I assume, must by proxy stir the profound in any writer.

That is what I tell myself as I listen to the day buoy ringing off the shore of the small island serving me as a temporary home. I am a volunteer castaway here among the wind-battered pines, the thick wild roses and the indifferent ribbon of rocks that separates sea from shore. Standing on the edge of a continent’s discarded debris, I stare across an entire ocean and wonder how long it will take my sigh to reach Scotland.

Actually, it’s Spain and its coveted siestas directly across these blustery waters. I am merely more fond of my adopted ancestries and so I remind the ocean that the gulf stream ought to carry that exhale of contentment to the north on its warm winds to nestle in the dense coats of a stalwart sheep.

One simply cannot stand on the shore of a great body of water and not feel compelled to the pull of it. The tides exhale a beckoning toward shore, and then breathe in a promise of something unknown and mysterious on the horizon.

Is there a bottle I could be tossed into? This is my contemplation for the morning, fueled by thin coffee and a wind that has kicked up the waves, first just their frothy tops, now an undulating ocean that crashes against the rocks in sprays of recklessness.

It strikes me that we don’t contemplate much anymore. We are catapulted through life with the acceleration of something mislabeled “convenience.” While the root words of “con” or the Latin “together” might imply some similarities, there is a distinct absence of contemplative thought while in the convenient bank drive-thru. At best, I wonder if the dog biscuits are going to be vomited in the back seat, and if my math is wrong again.

We have effectively limited “space between” in every compartment of our lives, stuffing it with activities, consumption, dissociation. And should we find ourselves in the discomfort of a waiting room or the boredom of a grocery line, we can rescue ourselves from thoughts by scrolling through those of others on our phones.

Thank goodness, or we’d be at great risk of forming an original one ourselves and where would we be if we all just stood around thinking?

This resembles judgment as I am sequestered on this island to do just that: Contemplate. It feels like an enormous amount of pressure. Did the great minds of Greece head out on walks, hands clasped together behind them, with the goal of profundity or did they know that it was inevitable, given the space and time?

If there was a yoga for the mind, one might say it is meditation, but I would argue that it is contemplation – that introspecting on the mysteries and wonders of the things we strive to understand or ponder with awe is a lubrication of the mind. It makes me want to use fluffy terms like “collective consciousness” and hope that if we just thought about things, we might discover the meaning of life or the solution to climate change or the better combination of flavors to use in our next chicken recipe.

Our brains need space. I often forget that until I find myself standing in the gale-force winds that toss the whipped sea in fine drops that leave salt on my cheeks. I lost myself in watching how the gulls float suspended and unmoving, then turn to race away with the wind at their backs. Do they tease each other this way? Is hovering practice or play to a bird? Is there a difference?

The ocean is the amniotic fluid of evolution as space and time are to our minds.

There are things happening in there we can hardly imagine because we so rarely pause to listen. Its voice is softer than the person taking your order at Starbucks, or the ping reminding you of your next appointment.

And yet, it is always available. Just start by taking it on a walk. If you’re unsure of what to do with your hands, clasp them behind your back.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com