The Forest For The Trees

 

It's always the little things
Art by Mike Beeman

I'm a university student. More specifically, I happen to be a Canadian university student, meaning I have a functional (albeit much to be desired) transit system. I have a not-so-subtle appreciation for public transit and all its boons, for even if it could be so much better at the moment, it's still good by merit of what it is. Argue all you'd like for cars and motorcycles; I think they're great! But I also believe there's an intrinsic, valuable aspect to the shared commute, never mind the question of accessibility.

I like the train station. I enjoy the benefits that come with trains and buses. Being carried away in a silver-painted storage container seems like it should put the fear of God in me, but it mostly perspirates through my mind. It's not just the system that I appreciate, though: it's the facilitation.

Just to make sure I'm using the word correctly (and to practice defining what I actually say), when I say "facilitation," I mean the effect a choice or decision in an environment has on making more decisions possible. Effectively, how the things we allow let more things happen. It's not a new concept, and it carries the sins of being used in negative connotations, but I think this particular instance is an example of the good one: how things can be better rather than worse.

I promise this'll all neatly tie together; just stay with me, okay?

I Like Trains

The train station's always busy, no matter the time of day or what kind of weather rolls into town. Be it rain or snow, monday or friday, there will always be people waiting for the train. It's a constant.

One of my favourite parts of the train station—besides the trains themselves— is the gap between the first and second set of stairs. After all, the train station is attached to a bus station, so the whole construct works a bit like a checkpoint. A broad, door-riddled hallway is down the first flight and out of the bus station. Another stairwell not too far ahead, broom closets and switchboards, and then the second flight of stairs. But in that middle space where you're forced to walk, there's a singular detail I cannot help but speak on.

A little rectangle! Printed on the floor and hugging the backsplash behind the far stairwell, there's a neat little presented space. A bit like a stage, a bit more like a glorified placemat, but generally just a quiet space. I say it's a quiet space because it isn't often used for its intended purpose, which is a shame, but I'm more interested in when it is used rather than when it isn't. 

Extravagant, beautiful little things
Artist Unknown

The square's an official installation; it wasn't put there by some random passerby or for a homeless person to sleep on. It has the local transit icon on it, and it's decorated with little drawings of music notes, violins, and saxophones. As far as I am aware, it's MEANT for musicians to set up shop, playing for their amusement or for cash. I rarely see people using the space, though, so the warmth of sound is typically replaced with yelling and dusty bootprints (and sometimes, a homeless person does decide that it looks like a comfy spot). But the other week, somebody was there! An older gentleman with a sizeable burly coat, a scraggly gray beard, and a fancy-looking wide-brimmed hat, all set up and ready to go. He had a bunch of stuff wrapped around on a push-cart, a guitar and mic stand, and even a speaker. He never said anything, just played and sang and bowed whenever someone put a dollar or two in his guitar case.

Let me tell you, I've never been so upset at not having cash on me in my life.

I don't even know who this guy was! He didn't have a sign; he never spoke beyond the covers he was singing, and I don't even think I saw him ever open his eyes. He just... performed. I probably stood in that tunnel for close to half an hour just listening to him sing. I don't know if it was the music itself or if I was just in a particular moment in my life and thereby "in my feelings", but I simply couldn't walk away. A lady walked by, gave him a dollar which he responded to with a bow, and with a smile, said to me:

"enjoy!"

Sadly, I eventually had to go to class, but by the time I returned (cash newly in hand), he had packed up his things and left. But in that brief moment of time, I think I really got to experience something special. One of the reasons why I love art at all. Not to mention one of the reasons why I think it's so important.

An Actual Explanation

Things you oft forget
Art by Rachel Altschuler

Have you ever heard the phrase "seeing the forest for the trees"?

It's a bit of a confusing idiom, but generally, it means "to be confused or distracted with minor details; to not see the whole picture", and I think it's pretty appropriate when recognizing some parts of our day-to-day life. So many parts of how we do things, no matter how lovely they are, seem to be at risk of being completely and utterly normalized with time. I don't think it's the normalization that's the problem, but moreso that feeling, that almost numbing sensation, of when something becomes completely and utterly normal. When it stops being special or surprising. 

I love music. I never really got "into" it until I was older, but it's always been at the forefront of my creativity. I listen to music to get inspiration, I listen to music while I write, and I listen to music whilst I daydream. Hell, I feel like I see music in everything sometimes! When I find a new song that resonates with me, it's something to be celebrated. A new feeling, a reminder of something I love that perhaps I'd previously forgotten, or simply a return to something old now new. But I get the same feeling as everyone: eventually, whether I'd like it to or not, a song becomes overplayed. it gets old, and even if I still love the song for what it is, how it sounds, or what it stands for, it loses a bit of that magic. 

I think life is full of those experiences, and I don't think that it's bad, but I also can't help but feel like it's a lot more dangerous than some people realize. What happens when that job stops being special, when the routine becomes dull or (god forbid) sour? I'd like to say you find things to replace that void, but it always depends on the individual, and sometimes you don't have the money (or time) to reinvest in new experiences. Some people can also enjoy something for a long time, which is great too! But what about others? What about when the time runs out? 

Part of what I like about that old idiom is that it highlights both extremes—positive or negative, you can be distracted from the greatness of what surrounds you. I don't think anybody likes monotony, to be honest, and yet many of us spend our days just going through the motions of life; devoid of expression. Of enjoyment. And that's why I think facilitation is so important. 

The Bird In The Trees

Art is such a complicated thing, but I think one of the best ways to experience it is when you don't look for it. At least not exactly. It's really easy to put yourself into boxes as early as possible, so you're only surrounded by what first made you comfortable. Those things aren't bad just because they came first, but I also don't think we should limit ourselves to what we've been "given", y'know?

It's effortless to see the forest for the trees, to only see the minutia and what's immediately in front of you, but I also think it's essential to take notice of the little things sometimes. If you just blur everything out around you and walk through the forest with no curiosity or joy or excitement—pure movement—that's not only dangerous, but it's pretty unhealthy for your mind. You have to smell the roses sometimes. You have to count branches or absorb the space around you. 

I'll call it "seeing the bird in the trees". Even if you didn't expect it, taking notice of the little, beautiful things is quite therapeutic.

That older gentleman in the subway didn't sing with perfect pitch, and he certainly didn't play each chord exactly as prescribed, but he presented to the world something that was thoroughly and utterly his own. His own expression of the world through his eyes and words and mind. I think that's an inherently human thing to do, something that really only we can do, and what's especially important to me is the effect it has.

We're all just going through life. That's a given, but when we allow ourselves to be occasionally convenienced by art, especially art that we didn't go out of our way to see, there's something special there. I don't know. Just something stuck in my mind. Food for thought.

Things you'd best not forget
Art by Jamel Akib