The Little Things

I always feel dumb when I watch a movie and it really makes me think about things. I guess I think I should be thinking about life lessons from books or stuff like that, but it doesn't seem to go that way very often. Maybe that's what is so amazing about film (and I'm not talking Adam Sandler-esque film). It takes us and puts us in places that we'd never even consider imaginable, let alone close to the first person. If someone said, "Tell me about movies," I'd probably say that they are stories, both real and fake, that make us realize how much there is and how much there was and how much there could be in the world.

Indulge me and take my latest venture into my affection for worldly cinema. "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" is a true story about the editor of Elle, a famous fashion magazine apparently. He's on top of his industry when he has a stroke that essentially paralyzes everything except him brain, ears, and eyes. To put it lightly, that would suck. Imagine life not being able to move anything except one eye (his other eye basically shut down and was no longer usable). You can't talk, move, or eat. You can't play a sport or type on a computer or drive to the grocery store. The list could go on forever.

While this guy essentially couldn't do anything, he could do everything that so many of us can't or won't or don't. Maybe he can't move, but he can be moved. Maybe he can't talk, but he can speak. Maybe he can't hug, but he can embrace.

Sometimes — no, forget that, many times — we have as much vitality as could be physically possible, yet we are as close to death as he was. The man, who died a few years ago, blinked out his memoirs with one eye, a painstakingly slow process that produced 144 pages! He continued to live his life as much as possible. He was a father with three children, he tried to reconcile with his one-time partner, and he took in all the world had to offer him. He was enamored by the little things in life — a lighthouse, the wind, the laughter of children. If only we all were so lucky.

The question then becomes how can a man so close to death live so much more than most. How can someone with movement in only one eye walk so tall. It seems that in order to appreciate what we have, it all has to be taken away. It's sometimes funny to look back at the petty in life and realize how idiotically destructive it can be — how friendships are lost over inconsequential battles, how ties are broken by slight differences in opinions, how our constant desire to be better than others leads us to push people down.

I don't say these things from a pedestal. Rather, I say this in admiration of what I wish life could be. At times, we toil in that which frustrates, angers, and scares us, all the while ignoring what makes our lives worth living. It's sad to think that a man whose only conscious decision he can make every single day for years is whether to blink one eye can live a more fulfilled life than many.

Given, he only came to realize many of these things once everything was taken from him. Still, how did he do it? My guess is that his heart still worked better than any of ours. Now the question becomes how do we go about living the same life as him, understanding how to have the same heart as him, but with the capabilities we all have.

It's not a question that I know the answer to, but I do know that life would be a whole lot better if I did.