The two trains left the station simultaneously.
I stared out the window of one of them.
What would normally be a nondescript view of a dark tunnel was now anything but.
Instead, I was staring at a corresponding car of the other train, illuminated as bright as day.
I could see the woman reading her book, the teenager listening to music through earbuds, and the old man staring off into space.
It was as if I was glancing into an immersive exhibit or a scene from a sitcom. The glass windowpane hardly existed. Our two train cars seemed kinetically connected.
This experience lasted for a minute or so. Then the train I was on activated its brakes. We were approaching the next station.
The other train was skipping this stop. As it roared on, the corresponding train car exited stage left in a blur – followed by the rest of the cars.
The moment had passed. And reality had returned.
At least that’s what I thought.
Be where your feet are.
This phrase ain’t exactly commonplace, but it’s still quite familiar.
It encourages us to live in the moment. To stay grounded. To focus on what’s now, instead of what’s next.
I’ve long struggled with this concept. I’m the opposite of a restless soul. But I find the single snapshots to be hopelessly narrow.
The peripherals matter to me.
I’m fascinated by what led up to the moment I’m in, and I’m intrigued by what that moment will ultimately yield.
So, I pry. I delve into my well of memories for inspiration. And I try to anticipate the next move.
This approach has yielded dividends over the years — including more than 500 Ember Trace articles. But at what cost?
After all, if I can’t zoom fully in on the here and now, I can hardly expect to make the most of it.
I’ve taken steps to fill the gap over the years. I’ve attended mindfulness sessions, locked myself in distraction-free rooms, and even tried my hand at journaling. But none of that fully narrowed the lens.
Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be narrowed in that way.
When I was in college, I took a series of broadcast news production courses.
Instead of the usual litany of lectures and exams, these classes consisted of field exercises.
Each week, I would take on a new task, such as balancing a new camera on a tripod, framing an interview subject, or filming in Steadicam mode.
These exercises drove home a central point. Even with the advent of multimedia, news stories were best told through a series of snapshots.
The vertigo-inducing camcorder shots featured in films like The Blair Witch Project – not to mention countless home videos – were unprofessional. They needed to be avoided at all costs.
I took these lessons with me into the real world. During my time as a small-market TV news producer, I checked the footage from reporters and news photographers religiously. I trusted their work, but I still needed to verify that nothing unsteady had found its way in.
Around this time, I noticed a new trend taking hold. People started strapping custom-built cameras to their foreheads and hitting record. They’d glide across ziplines, carve through the fresh powder of a ski slope, or get big air at the skate park – with the camera catching every moment from their perspective. And when it was all done, they’d post those videos to social media.
These cameras were made by a company called GoPro. And these GoPro videos were seemingly everywhere.
I felt conflicted by this development. On one hand, I felt my agency as a professional storyteller was under siege. But on another, I saw the power of capturing a moment in motion.
For movement is the truest form of stillness. Our entire existence takes place on an orb spinning at more than 1,000 miles per hour. And we often shift to and fro on that orb, adding yet another layer of movement to the puzzle.
The concept of storytelling through snapshots was little more than an illusion. A concept designed to smooth the edges, organize the chaos, and make the finished project look more polished.
The truest expression of a moment is but a blur. And reading the complexion of that blur is the definition of being present.
There was a sense of freedom to be found in that complexion. But no one was going to wrangle it for me.
I’d need to do so for myself.
As I write this, my news production days are well behind me.
But my storytelling era is still going strong.
I’ve found plenty of new outlets to share narratives. This, of course, is one of those outlets. But another has a special place in my heart.
It occurs on suburban trails under the moonlight – at roughly 8 miles per hour.
You see, several friends and I will often meet before dawn on weekday mornings to run together. The world is quiet at that hour. But we are anything but.
As miles of pavement fly by under our feet, we are deep in discussion – providing updates on our lives, sparking debates, and regaling each other in stories. It’s a conversation only audible to a group of people in motion — a secret that’s shared out in the open.
I feel more present on these group runs than I do anywhere else. My senses are heightened, my recall is impeccable, and my sense of inner peace is unmatched. Surrounded by people with a similar passion, I find sanctuary.
There’s a sense of irony here. For I’m being where my feet are, even as they glide across the ground at high speed.
But maybe that’s the whole point.
Maybe being static doesn’t need to mean being still. Maybe it means glimpsing through the window at the patrons of the adjacent car as both trains barrel down the track. Maybe it means partaking in a conversation that literally lasts for miles.
Maybe it’s all of that — and more.
Living in the moment needn’t require a pause button. Let’s embrace the blur.