I used to relate to the world mostly in one way, now mostly another.
Both have benefits, but I’m in a new chapter of my life — a life that already seems to me surprisingly long, since my father and paternal grandfather both died at much earlier ages than the one I’ve arrived at.
The old way of viewing the world was largely via journalism — looking out into the world and reporting what I found there. And that, in turn, was oddly similar to school: Do the research/homework, write up what you’ve discovered.
As a journalist, I’d look outwards for story ideas, or have stories assigned to me by editors, who were also almost exclusively looking “out” into the “world” to see what was out there that might be of interest to our readers.
No navel gazing, please! Just the facts, Jack, with a bit of context.
And, of course, at least implicitly, stories that would fit into our publication’s needs and approaches, its familiar ways of looking at the world — and without unduly antagonizing too many readers or advertisers.
No looking into ideological cubbyholes, for example. But that’s another saga.
This one is about looking “in” versus looking “out.”
Looking out has the advantage of freshness. Variety. New things are always happening. New stories. New trends. New companies. New ideas percolating. People doing or saying or thinking new — or new-ish— things.
And in the current world, of course, the new quickly overpowers and subdues the old. Instantly—in a TikTok minute.
Now—retired—I have more time and inclination to look “in,” although I still find plenty of time to keep track of the endless perils and perplexities of the world and its ways.
But on most days, after reading or skimming headlines and major stories, and a few intriguing minor tidbits, I have far more time to walk, think, garden, read other kinds of things, and ponder other kinds of thoughts.
I take lots of random photographs along the way: flowers, parks, weird patterns, graffiti, old buildings, startling geometric shapes. Things that are “outside me” but that reach out to something inside. Another way of looking.
Plus — at least two full days a week — I help babysit my almost-eight-month-old granddaughter — yet another kind of Zen.
And I have time to write essays and poems and musings, like the one you’re reading.
But what do I find when I look inside more, and outside (at least proportionally) less?
We’ll take a peak at that next time.