Tag: moment

In the Moment

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.

Right Move, Wrong Moment

The call came in from a number that looked somewhat familiar. I rushed to take it.

My SUV was at the dealership for repairs, and I figured my service advisor was calling with an update.

I was partially right.

The call was from the dealership. But it came from the sales department.

Sir, I see that your vehicle is in for service. What would it take for us to buy it off you and get you in a new one?

I hadn’t considered the idea. My mind was consumed with fixing what ailed my vehicle, and hopefully not going broke in the process.

I told the sales representative as much, hoping that would end the conversation. But he countered by asking when I might feel differently.

I don’t know, I replied. Maybe when my registration renewal is due in the spring.

Sure enough, when springtime rolled around, I was got a call from the same representative. He was polite, but persistent. Persistent in coaxing me to follow through on the swap he’d proposed.

I wasn’t taking the bait. I politely told the sales representative to leave me alone.

Several years have passed since this encounter. But it remains top of mind for me.

These days, when I drop my vehicle off for service, I expect a call like this. So, I save my service advisor’s phone number in my contact list. And I don’t pick up calls from similar looking numbers.

I know too well who’s on the other end of the line. And I have no interest in playing that game.

There may well be a time when I feel the need to replace my vehicle. Perhaps it will become inoperable, or the repair bills for it will get too high.

But when that day comes, I’d like to be the one initiating the buying process. The same way I did when I purchased my current vehicle.

As far as I’m concerned, a proactive sales motion will always be a case of right move, wrong moment.

Place and time.

They make for odd bedfellows.

One is a physical reality. The other a mental construct.

There are nearly 200 million square miles of places on this earth. Some are inhabitable, others less so. But the forensic proof of their existence is irrefutable.

Time offers a different challenge. Yes, we have clocks and calendars to mark its passage. And nature has its sunrises, sunsets, leaf falls and snowfalls. But even with all that, when is more open to interpretation than where.

Perhaps this is why mastering the moment is so challenging.

We know better than to wander into a burning building on our own accord. But avoiding a building that’s likely to ignite? That’s a trickier proposition.

I learned this principle early on.

During a childhood vacation in Maine, my family ventured across a sandbar from Bar Harbor to a small island.

My parents checked their watches as we ventured across the wet sand. Their behavior seemed curious, but I didn’t question it.

By the time we’d reached the island, I’d all but forgotten about the watches. There were new trails to hike, and new sights to see. I was full of excitement.

My explorations would soon be cut short though, thanks to a warning from my father.

We have to head back now. If we don’t, we’ll be stuck here until tomorrow.

You see, the tide was coming back in, and the sandbar we’d crossed would soon be submerged. Our only route back to shore was evaporating.

So, we hustled our way back across the sandbar. But once we emerged in Bar Harbor, I was forever changed.

No longer would I be ignorant of the moment. I would be sure to factor in the when along with the where.

Even if others failed to do the same.

In 2017, a Yale law student named Lina Khan wrote an article that gained national acclaim.

Khan argued that the traditional markers of antitrust regulation were outdated and needed reframing.

You see, in previous generations, business monopolies had largely focused on pricing power. As the only game in town for the goods they offered, they could charge as much as they want. And consumers were forced to part with bigger and bigger portions of their budget to get by – at least until antitrust regulators stepped in in.

But now, companies like Amazon were managing to stifle competition while keeping prices low. Such were the advantages of the internet era, where volume alone could yield value.

Consumers were all too happy to feed Amazon’s monopolistic engine. The goods they used to trek to stores for were now even more affordable. And they didn’t need to leave home to get them.

But while consumers were thriving and prices were low, Amazon’s competitors were suffering. Khan saw this as a problem – for commerce and for capitalism. And she argued that antitrust practices needed to shift.

So began a meteoric rise for Khan’s career. The newly minted Juris Doctor soon found work in think tanks, academia, and government. By 2021, she had risen to the top post at the Federal Trade Commission.

Khan wasted no time getting to work. The FTC quickly objected to a series of corporate mergers. And the agency got involved in several high-profile investigations of Amazon and other technology giants.

The FTC notched some major wins during this time. It blocked the merger of grocery chains Albertsons and Kroger. And it helped derail several consolidation attempts for budget airlines.

But such victories often proved hollow.

You see, Khan’s crusade came in the wake of major economic headwinds. A dissipating pandemic, a global supply chain snarl, and a bout of inflation had made life difficult for businesses and consumers alike.

Instead of lining their pockets through mergers, many businesses were seeking consolidation simply to survive. And when the FTC blocked their path, they fell apart.

Albertsons and Kroger have closed many locations since their merger went up in smoke. Spirit Airlines – one of the budget airlines the FTC helped thwart – has since gone bankrupt. And these developments have left consumers with fewer options and persistently higher prices.

Khan’s effort to stiffen antitrust enforcement might have been the right move. But it was executed at the wrong moment. And America suffered for it.

Place and time mean everything.

Some years back, I was at an arcade when my friends goaded me into trying out the fighter jet simulator.

I had never operated one of those before, and I had no idea what I was doing. But I concocted a plan anyway.

The button under my left thumb controlled the jet’s gun, while the button under my right thumb launched missiles.

I knew that each weapon could represent the right move. But only at the right moment.

So, as the simulator reached “cruising altitude,” I’d look for enemy aircraft in the area. If they appeared close, I’d fire the gun a time or two. And if they seemed to be further away, I’d launch a missile.

By the time the ride was over, I’d maintained a respectable score.

Here in the ride of life, it’s critical that we all follow similar guidance. That we avoid succumbing to rigidity and stubborn ideology. That we consider the when as much as the what.

The right move only works when deployed at the right moment.

Let us not forsake one for the other.