Eric Tian

Last week I sat in a cafe reading my newsletters. One writer was sharing photos from his recent trip to Paris. It looked stunning – the cafes were practically oozing with literary spirit, fashion was everywhere on the streets, baguettes and croissants were abundant yet cheap. It seemed like a beautiful and inspiring place to be.

A noise behind me broke my reverie. A little girl, no older than five, was trying to pronounce a word from the menu, and people around her were amused at her inaccuracies.

“Suh-laa-mai,” she said.

“Suh-laa-meeee,” her parents laughed.

“Suh-laa-meee,” she said again, with some effort. Her success was met with cheers from customers around.

Then my gaze lifted upwards and I noticed that the cafe I was in was strangely beautiful. There was a soft aroma of coffee and toast in the air, the chairs were comfortable, the walls were decorated with oil paintings and in the corner was little wooden carving of a lion. Outside, the sun was warm and bright – a rarity in Melbourne winter – and there were people strolling, jogging, and enjoying the occasion. Rays of sunlight lit up the cafe through the windows, and the golden hue made the room feel divine.

It struck me then that I had never noticed the beauty of this place, despite having visited previously, and for an instant the glory of this moment stunned me, almost to the point of tears. Then, just as quickly, the thought I had previously missed other moments like this, due to distraction, tiredness, or ignorance, sunk me into a deep sadness.

We often look towards unfamiliar places to escape the mundanity of our own lives. That is, I think, one of the greatest motivators for travel. But look up for a moment, and one might realise that paradise was around us all along, just waiting to be discovered.

A letter from Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek, to a teenage student with learning difficulties who had recently begun reading science fiction:

“Dear Roger:

I have been told of your exceptional progress in reading during the last year and that you are especially interested in reading and writing science fiction. It was also suggested you might want to know how I feel about books.

First and most important, I consider reading the greatest bargain in the world. A shelf of books is a shelf of many lives and ideas and imaginations which the reader can enjoy whenever he wishes and as often as he wishes. Instead of experiencing just one life, the book-lover can experience hundreds or even thousands of lives. He can live any kind of adventure in the world. Books are his time machine into the past and also into the future. Books are his “transporter” by which he can beam instantly to any part of the universe and explore what he finds there. Books are an instrument by which he can become any person for a while—a man, a woman, a child, a general, a farmer, a detective, a king, a doctor, anyone. Great books are especially valuable because a great book often contains within its covers the wisdom of a man or woman’s whole lifetime. But the true lover of books enjoys all kinds of books, even some nonsense now and then, because enjoying nonsense from others can teach us to also laugh at ourselves. A person who does not learn to laugh at his own problems and weaknesses and foolishness can never be a truly educated or a truly happy person. Also, probably the same thing could be said of a person who does not enjoy learning and growing all his life.

The reason I have written you such a long letter is that we not only share a love of science and science fiction, but we share something else. When I was a child, I was disabled by illness. Although my problem was different from yours, it did keep me from enjoying many things enjoyed by other young people. In a way, this turned out to be fortunate for me, since it turned me toward books. In those days, I used to think that it would have been better to have no physical problem and to have become a great football star or something like that. But now I realize that my love of books gave me much more happiness than anything else could have done.

Please do try your hardest to persevere at reading. You will never regret doing that.

Very sincerely yours,
Gene Roddenberry”

For those pockets of time we surrender to our devices.

1. Smile at a stranger
2. Notice your surroundings / externally meditate
3. Notice yourself / internally meditate
4. Do absolutely nothing at all
5. Touch something
6. Contemplate your day and, by extension, your life
7. Call or text someone
8. Walk
9. Stretch
10. Drink some water
11. Journal
12. Listen to music / a podcast / an audiobook
13. Clean something
14. Breathe
15. Dance
16. Nap (if appropriate)
17. Create a story from the day’s events (a nod to Storyworthy by Matthew Dicks)
18. Notice
19. Notice
20. Notice

I once saw a psychotic patient who refused to accept any interventions. He knew he needed help, but hated the stigma of antipsychotics and going to a psych ward.

“I don’t want to be a freak,” he would say. “Don’t put me in that place for freaks.”

The treating team had tried nearly everything they could – reassurance, lengthy explanations, even bribery, to no avail. The only option left, it seemed, was the mental health act, a legislation resulting in compulsory treatment. Voluntary treatment, however, was always preferred.

After a one hour interview, the psychiatrist took one last approach before giving up. He began telling stories of his own shortcomings, and revealed that he also had previous struggles with mental illness. The psychotic patient listened intently, and for a moment it felt that this shared experience silenced his hallucinations.

“I’m not perfect here, he’s not perfect here (gesturing to me) – we all have baggage we’re carrying,” the psychiatrist said. “Truth is, we’re all a bit mad and full of shit. But this treatment we’re offering will help you be just as bad as other people, not so bad that you risk harming yourself or others.”

He accepted the offer.

It seems in our most troubled and ashamed moments, there is respite in knowing that our brokenness is not unique to the world, but rather that we know ourselves too well. Seeing the limitations of others paves the way, perhaps ironically, for self-compression and respect.

From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland:

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”