Fallton Havenstonne

We often regard the things around us in terms of their usefulness. When objects are built/created for utility, they are designed to serve a need or to perform a certain task–and to do it well.

When “form follows function,” the utility of a building or tool is primary over its aesthetic quality. But when function replaces form, what we get is bland design: things that look boxy, rectangular, basic, but simple.

When something is reduced entirely to its function, then color, style, mood, tone, etc., are irrelevant in terms of what it’s supposed to do. As a result, we regard that object like we would a kitchen utensil. It’s not designed to inspire, not something that is supposed to have character, originality or distinction.

Utility is all fine and good if simplicity and uniformity were all that we were after. But we seek more from life. We want new experiences, and we want to improve and enhance the quality of our life. And when it comes to the utility of the things we own, their value not only comes from their usefulness or longevity, but in how they inspire us, elicit ideas, or evoke emotions.

As we go about our day, we’ll think about our surroundings, and what’s happening in our lives. We might imagine an upcoming conversation we’re about to have, or have an internal debate about the pros and cons of a situation or idea. Whatever the case may be, we’re having an inner dialogue–working through the possibilities of what might be said, and what is the best thing to say.

It’s as if we need to rehearse the conversation in our mind before it occurs. This helps us to anticipate and to react to a wide range of scenarios. The inner dialogue is a part of how we voice our thoughts in a sort of batting cage. Besides, when we think, our ideas are bouncing all over the place, and people might not understand what we’re trying to say. But after some fine tuning in the batting cage, our ideas are clearer, and we feel more confident in expressing our thoughts aloud.

Zoning out is kind of like slipping into a daydream. Our eyes are not shut, we’re not unconscious of where we are or what’s going on, and we might even be functioning to some degree. But our minds are so far off from what we’re doing that it’s as if we’ve left our bodies and traveled to a different place, a different world.

That’s what zoning out is like. It could happen when we’re staring at the TV but thinking about something completely different. We’re so absorbed in thought that the show or movie isn’t even registering in our brains. We’ve stepped into a space that is more real–a space that demands our attention and focus.

Even though from the outside, it looks like we’re watching TV, internally, we’re playing a game of chess, working on our financial goals, or imagining scenes for our next story. And once we’ve left our “space,” only then does it feel like we’ve been living in two different realities.

Whenever I reorganize my things, I often find hidden treasures in some box or bag that I had stowed away. Things that I forgot I had–things that I thought I had lost.

For items to be hidden treasures, they don’t have to be expensive or luxurious. They’re often sentimental items such as old photographs from family gatherings, CDs that I used to listen to, drawings that I had sketched in my youth, and artwork that I had made in college.

Finding a hidden treasure often brings a surge of memories. What counts as a hidden treasure is different for all of us. It could be something as simple as a gift from someone we knew, or a wristwatch we used to wear, a book we used to read, or a toy from our youth. They may not mean much to anyone else, but they have great significance to us.

These hidden treasures remind us of how transient life is, and that the things that are important to us are not important because of their monetary value, but because of the memories we’ve attached to them.

When we want to sleep, but put it off, it carries a feeling of frustration. There can be many reasons for this. We might convince ourselves to stay up late and finish things for work, or to prepare for an important event, or even finish up an assignment or project for a class.

Sometimes when this happens, it’s when we need sleep the most. It’s as if these things are conspiring against us, keeping us from having a good night’s rest.

Couldn’t they wait until tomorrow? Couldn’t we tell ourselves that? Even though we might, we don’t take our own advice. Instead, we stay up for hours working on whatever needs to be done until it’s finished. By that point, it’s 1 or 2 in the morning. If we’re lucky, we’ll get 5 or 6 hours of sleep. Not enough to be fully rested for work the next day.

Perhaps the best thing to do is to hold off on what needs to be done. Get it done tomorrow so that we can get some rest. Or we can wake up early to work on it (although this is easier said than done). Or we should start getting on a regular sleep schedule, and make everything else work around that.

Years ago, I felt the need for silence–the need for calmness and tranquility from all the noise on TV and from the media. So I started to read, made it a goal to read for just one hour a day. The more I read, the more the noise started to die down. And in my solitude of reading, my mind was transported elsewhere–living in the imaginary world of the books I read.

That silence became a kind of meditation–a way of centering my focus, of training my mind to be still and to concentrate on one thing for a long period of time.

While the noise was gone, my mind was active. I hardly tuned in to the media or to what was on TV. I realized how much less anxious felt with them gone, how much clearer my thoughts were, how much better I was able to think.

Reading requires silence because our imagination is working harder than actively seeing or listening. Reading is a different medium from music or film, one that requires us not just to perceive through our senses, but to imagine what images and sounds might exist.

When we explore a new place, we wander–not knowing where we will end up. Like going to a fair, an amusement park, or an art museum. We wander to see what’s around the bend, to know what’s out there.

Wandering is a slow process. The point isn’t to get to any place quickly, but to know what the place is about. We need time for it to sink in, and to discover each part of it.

Wandering can also help us to think and reflect. It’s an opportunity to sort through our thoughts when sitting or standing still isn’t working. The goal isn’t a destination, but to move as if we were moving through the landscape of our mind–piecing together the fragments and links–finding the treasures that are the key to our questions.