They were on my maybe list.
Mama Bear and I were down to the last few minutes of packing. All the absolute essentials, shelter, food and water, were already packed and had been sorted for a while. Each of us had our own lists as we both would be carrying our own gear. There were a few luxuries I was considering, all very small items that would certainly make almost no difference in the bigger picture of things, but also were in no way necessary.
And now that we were in the midst of making those final decisions of what would go into our pack and therefore be with us for the next 14 days, I was looking for earbuds.
He was an older gentleman. Based on his appearance and how he moved, I would say he must have been in his late 60s or early 70s. He was fit and you could tell that he wasn’t out for a doctor’s mandated walk because he had heart conditions. No, he was out running. Probably very much like he had for most of his life. He wasn’t moving quickly. No, the idea of fast was removed from his venacular sometime a couple of decades ago, but he was moving.
He was wearing grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt. Nothing particularly memorable about the entire scene. Old man shuffling down the street in non-descript apparel on a morning that could have been any. The only reason I took note was the two white wires hanging from his earbuds and the fact that this elderly gentleman had a phone in his hand and was clearly listening to something.
Nestled cozily in my machine, I couldn’t help but think about how he was being controlled by his phone, that this was some sort of sci-fi story where the machines had quietly taken over and no one had noticed. Not even this elderly gentleman in grey sweatpants who had willingly inserted the machines into his ears unwittingly surrendering control, knew. Nope, he had no clue.
I hit the gas pedal and speed away.
I blame Shelby.
It’s dark. Jax is having his typical come apart in the back of the car. I slip the headlamp on, grab my backpack and slip my earbuds in. The same thing I’ve done countless times. The music starts. I flip on the headlamp, release Jax from the confines of the automobile and start running.
I am drawn into a bubble created by the 300 lumens from my headlamp and the walls of sound I have put into my ears. I feel grounded but horribly disconnected from my surroundings and I love it. This bubble has become my safe space, a place to think and meditate in motion. The place I seek out every morning to try and think things through. Or so I thought.
A few minutes into my runrise and Shelby’s voice interrupts my bubble. The word keeps repeating in my head, DISTRACTED. I can’t get it out of my bubble. It floats around. I think of other things, sing out loud what is being inserted into my brain, try to convince myself that I’ve ran plenty of times without music and was able to enjoy it just as much.
Distracted.
By the time I am dropping into Suicidal Tendencies, the issue is first and foremost. In an effort to dispel the idea that I am just distracting myself, I promise to take the buds out when I stop at the top to give Jax water. I almost feel guilty, like I’m doing something wrong or immoral. After all this bubble, this moment of mediation is my happy space and I’ve now invited something external into it and handed it over control.
Goddammit, Shelby!
After five minutes of frantically digging through the house, I decide that the buds aren’t that important and I can probably find some in a gas station on the way to Yosemite. They are clicked off my list. I roll the top of my backpack, synch the straps down and place it on the couch by the front door marking it as ready.
My brain is horribly linear. There is no circling back. Once something is clicked off my list, there is no going back for it. The buds weren’t packed and I didn’t once look for a new pair on the drive to California.
It must have been day five or six, before we met up with the Meinkeys, I started whistling. Growing up in a home that was always filled with music, I am positive that this is the longest I’ve gone without hearing melodic sounds orchestrated together to stimulate my brain. In response, I unknowingly started creating some myself.
Shelby and Cami came over the pass and met up with us on our day eight. By this time, I didn’t even recognize when or how I started whistling, it was a subconscious reaction to my surroundings and lack of distractions. Music, that to my ears sounded interesting but was probably horrible to everyone else. Shelby would laugh each time he caught me unknowingly creating sound.
What I had recognized at this point was all the things I used to “get through” my normal life were either distractions or masking agents. Never had I gone this long without the ability to use outside stimulation, outside substances to distract me from my surroundings and suffering. I was stuck. There was no way to get these things as we were in the middle of nowhere walking. Walking does not lend itself to easy extraction and truth be told, I had zero desire to be extracted.
I had no way of distracting myself and I was 100% ok with that.
I stop at the top surveying my 360 degree view, pull out the dog bowl and fill it for Jax. As I promised myself, I pull the earbuds out and place them in the charging case. I’m almost overwhelmed by the silence. At least at first, after just a few moments what sounded like nothingness is filled with the natural sounds of a morning in the desert.
Jax finishes his water. I give him a bit more. Bowl goes back into my pack and soon we are back in motion. For the first few minutes, my brain essentially tries to convince me that, “See, nothing is different. You just lost the music. Don’t you like music?” The farther into the descent I get, foot fall after foot fall rhythmically dragging me back to the trailhead, my mind starts going different places. Instead of following what was being inserted into my head, my brain starts exploring its own pathways leading me in all sorts of directions. I realize I am sorting all the things that I hadn’t sorted yet. My brain needed a little space.
My bubble is now huge. The sun has risen opening my view. My unblocked ears are now straining to hear and quickly recognizing the bird calls, the distant roar of the machines and also the relative quiet I am traversing.
As I near the trailhead, I try to convince myself that I had just proven Shelby wrong, but I could tell that something had changed for me. Running without distractions was just as enjoyable as running with, but losing the earbuds created a different experience. One where I was much more in control and that I actually enjoyed more than having the tunes inserted into my thought processes.
We get back to the car. I open the back so Jax can jump in. Pulling out his bowl and filling it so he can have a drink before we head home. I turn the machine on and that feeling of guilt returns as the music automatically starts playing.
It’s a good song. I leave it on.
Deprivation.
For 14 days, we were deprived. There was limited food, no booze, no hot water, no permanent shelter, no internet, no electricity, no music, no machines, no distractions.
As a species, we’ve been insanely successful. So much so, that our successes have become our greatest obstacles. We solved food scarcity and now deal with an obesity epidemic. We figured out how to all live in perfect temperatures and now can’t sort out why we all feel like we are in a rut and stuck in a never-changing life. We’re comfortable and suffering all sorts of side effects.
The definition of deprivation is “the lack or denial of something considered to be a necessity.” Our necessities have exploded. We need so many things that, in reality, we need to deprive ourselves daily to be able to continue to succeed as a species.
Or we can be like that elderly gentleman, shuffling down the sidewalk, doing his thing, earbuds in and oblivious to the world around us.
Peace. Love. and Revolution.
