Tag Archives: Life in the moment

The Art of the Moment

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There is an art to being in the moment and fully appreciating something. There is a great subtlety involved with it. The art of the moment is where one drops off into an inclusiveness defined by nothingness, where the allure of the sensuous casts a light over all that is and can be felt, enclosing us in a timeless landscape of constancy and synthesis.

But to truly be in the moment one must give up a sense of being someone in the moment. This is not an easy thing to do. Most of us, even in moments where we claim we are in the present, are not. We are instead judging the world, capturing it, interpreting it in relation to how we have constructed our world in relation to our own identity and in relation to ideas. We try to be in the moment, but we want the moments to be ours, we want the moment to be our own, and the second we begin processing and acknowledging what we are experiencing, the second we are not experiencing.

With stillness and a finely tuned awareness one can watch that moment in an experience where one begins to move from the complete moment of the experience, off into one’s own world away from the present. It is very subtle and rather abrupt, but it can be experienced. In such a moment one will notice that often when perceiving something, one’s mind immediately wants to process that experience and categorize it in relation to itself and the conglomerate of memories and identities. Often, one is more concerned with being able to translate the experience to another. We are eager to put a label on it. We feel the urge to define, that egotistical urge, desperate to think the moment into existence, pretending that thought makes it real.

Thoughts, words, and ideas have a place of course but they are all only representations and as such they can never do justice to the experience, though that is what we desire from it. We want something to show to others and we get frustrated trying to explain ourselves. Language is flimsy at best and so our definition of experience is one that has an experiencer, but this kind of experience is different. When such things occur, the moment is lost and the purity of the experience is lost.

The most rewarding way to appreciate something and to fully experience it is to engage in a sensory experience without feeling the need to think about it or process it; without the need to say anything about it; instead, simply be with it and not try.

Indeed, trying becomes something paradoxical in and of itself. Naturally we are trying to do something, that is, be in the moment, but there is a difference between trying from an egoistic standpoint, and trying, where the intention to be is not a product of thought or conformity to some idealization. Instead, the intention to be becomes. This distinction can be experienced, again with careful awareness; one can watch the ‘you’ that is trying to be; one can see that conception of one’s self that has been created, the ego and the persona struggling to make the world more real and permanent than is possible.

In the end what “defines” the ability to be present has nothing to do with any force of the mind, there is no thought, or even mental effort. It is a letting go, an observing without an observer, a being without a being.

Zen and Travel

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I feel compelled to write about my motivations for travel, and where a camera fits in with those motivations. The question of the cameras importance in having a lasting and memorable experience has come up a number of times through friends and family who are often perplexed by my lack of desire to bring a camera on my trips; assuming it is then impossible to document or capture the experience.

This does not mean that I find a camera to be useless or that a person should never use a camera at all while travelling. On the contrary, I completely believe in the medium of photography as a way to get us to see the world differently. I also have faith in its ability to “capture” certain moments from a particular sense. This faith in photography just comes with reservations.

The first time I took a camera traveling was on a trip to Yosemite National park in California. On the hiking trails I remember a feeling of tension; being unable to decide when to stop, where to stop, did I miss a moment? Will I remember this? I took my time and took some lovely pictures, but I walked away with a feeling of failure in not capturing what I had seen. More specifically, I remember looking at the pictures later on and thinking, “These don’t do it justice.”

The next time I took a camera was to Iraq on both deployments. In Iraq there was an even stronger desire to try and capture what I was experiencing. Unlike Yosemite, however, there wasn’t only scenery I wanted to take pictures of, but feelings as well. Through brief moments of optimism I tried to capture what I was going through, but with little success. Walking away from deployment, I had left with many pictures, but I also left with intense emotions, realizations, and experiences. I can remember looking at the pictures later on and feeling frustrated that so many pictures could capture so little.

After my four years in the Marine Corps I went to Egypt for vacation. Here was another chance to “capture the moment.” Accompanying me on the trip was my good friend from the Marine Corps who had recently begun rediscovering his love for photography. It was interesting to watch him work. For me it became real demonstrative of how a person could enter into a dialogue with a place; almost if to become the very thing you were trying to capture. This was different than from what I had done in the past, and from what most other tourists were doing around us: that is, seeing something and trying to capture it as fast as they experienced it even though the feeling that spurred them to capture the moment had already passed. Thus the moment they were trying to catch became a kind of phantasm.

Egypt became a trip of a lifetime, not only because of what I saw, heard, and tasted, but because, much like Iraq, I had felt things at particular moments that transcended almost anything one could call tangible. Whether it was seeing the Pyramids come out from behind the buildings of Cairo, walking into a Muslim wedding, or the feeling of looking off into the Blue Hole while snorkeling off the coast. Again I had taken pictures. I was more patient. I scoped out particular angles, looked for kinds of lighting, considered depth etc. It wasn’t that this method wasn’t successful; the pictures I took gave me satisfaction, and along with my friend’s pictures, gave me a new sense for what a camera could do. It was just that when I reflected, I found that the most powerful experiences had been brief moments into another world; gone before I could acknowledge them, and intense beyond comprehension.  From then on I wanted to travel for those moments; to live for those moments. Needless to say I would still bring a camera on my next trip.

This came two tears later when I went to Turkey with another good friend. I brought a camera, but this time with the intention of using it almost meditatively. I also felt that from past experiences traveling in Egypt, I could get closer to those brief moments into another world.

I made sure to take my time with what I looked at. I would observe animals and insects and try to capture something profound about them. I would place flowers in the perfect corner relevant to a sunset, fog, or the ocean. I took many pictures; pictures with essence, pictures as paintings. Then irony struck:

On a random bus change in the middle of Turkey I dashed out of my seat to transfer to a different bus. An hour or so later I realized that my camera was gone: it had fallen out of my backpack and was now on a bus traveling through Turkey. I was devastated. I felt that I had poured my soul into the pictures I had taken. I tried to console myself with thoughts that my camera might be found by someone less fortunate. Or perhaps someone would find my camera, appreciate the photos, and even develop them so they could hang somewhere in their house. Perhaps I would stumble upon them on some auspicious day during a return trip through Turkey?

Then I realized something that I already knew: that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter I no longer had anything tangible to document my trip because the most powerful experiences were imprinted somewhere else. The pictures I had taken were only small glimpses into a world of feeling that was more profound for me. These were the feelings of being overwhelmed by the history and culture of place; a feeling that one is, on many levels, more than what he or she sees, hears, and tastes. These were the feelings that echoed from moments in Iraq and Egypt; moments from life in general.

The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh once told his students, “None of you have ever tasted a tangerine before.” After a number of the students countered that indeed they had, Hanh responded by saying, “No you have not because you were never fully present to the moment while you were eating them.” This can be viewed from the perspective of photography. How many pictures had I taken, and never really “seen” anything.” How many times had I neglected surrendering to the moment for the sake of trying to capture something else?

Now that I’ve put some years between my current situation and past travels I can reflect on the things I’ve done and confidently remind myself that the most memorable experiences I’ve had are permanently etched somewhere within. Those moments ran much deeper than anything sensory. They were moments I felt; moments that have given rise to the clichéd expressions, “You had to be there,” “Pictures don’t do it justice,” “It’s beyond words,” or “It was a life-changing moment.” These are the moments that leave us speechless, overwhelmed, changed.

Of course I could give more examples than the ones I described. I could mention the intensity of the heat when I first stepped off the plane into Kuwait. I could mention how it felt to walk off a mountain when I went paragliding over Oludeniz. But these are formalities. All a person needs to do is look back on their own lives and see what unhesitantly comes to mind; what still chokes you up or sends shivers down your spine?

For me there has been freedom in being able to let go in a place; a freedom that removes the distance and appearance of being separate from a place whether it is the sounds one is hearing, the sights one is seeing, or the people with whom one is engaging.

I remain reverent to what a camera can do, and I enjoy the creative possibilities that come with having one. I will probably bring a camera on my next trip. But as a way of capturing the whole moment, I’ll keep my reservations.