The Zeno Effect
The summer after I graduated college, I grabbed an empty journal and started writing a few sentences every day, inspired by all those “One line a day” notebooks. I kept this up through the end of that year (2015). Then, somehow, it ended up finding its way to a corner of my room, never to be intentionally opened again for years. Today, six years later, I grabbed it on my out the door to spend an afternoon at a park nearby.
It’s funny that when I think back to 2015, I only see the big things: my move across the country to start my master’s at Syracuse, that boy I liked and left behind in Iowa, that fun New York weekend trip with girlfriends. And the rest is just a blur of new friendships, classes, stress, jobs, and hustle.
But today, as I read through my daily entries, it touched me to see how much life we actually squeeze in when no one’s watching. These entries were full of hope and restlessness. And yet, there was so much actually happening that I couldn’t see or fathom.
After I was done reading, I couldn’t help but think, ”Man, what about everything else after that?” If I didn’t write it down, did I miss it? And did it matter?
I probably won’t ever quite remember the glory of every little mundane sunny day after that, nor will I be able to fully quantify its significance years later. And because of that … this little poem was born.
A common philosophical question asks “If a tree falls in the middle of the forest and no one is around to hear it, did it make a sound?”
What about all those years?
Did they matter?
If I didn’t put them down on paper,
did they happen?
What about the time I cried across the table from my would-be best friend?
Was there sorrow in my heart? Was it real?
Math says if a function doesn’t approach a finite value, it doesn’t exist.
So I once drove two hours around Houston in search of the perfect mac ‘n’ cheese.
There were years my biggest goal was the size of a snow globe.
Mornings of waking up late and bursting into work at 9:30 a.m.
There were nights I spent just waiting for a text.
Many times was I the only one, the first one, at the first time.
Hoping someone would cast their shadow next to mine.
I’ve had hands on me I regret.
Nights I went to bed with a gnawing in my chest.
There were days I drove far and out to a small town just to be someone with purpose for a day.
There was one time someone prayed over me and asked me, “Do you really want this?” and I said yes.
Does that person bear any resemblance to who I am today?
If growing doesn’t sound like a pop-and-pull tube when it’s yanked open, is it happening?
There’s a theory in physics that says atoms don’t move while you’re watching them.
But I’ve been seen, and known, and loved into being.
And it is the realest, most significant truth of my life.
