Nowadays, people seem to be glued to their smartphones anytime, anywhere. On public transportation in Japan for example, I often notice around 80% passengers are staring at their phones almost entire time. Another 10% are sleeping, while the remaining 10% are either chatting with friends or reading books. Of course, this is only based on my observation, and it might not apply to other areas in Japan.
On my long commute back home from central Tokyo, I find that it’s actually much easier to pass the time by scrolling through my phone and driving into the online world than simply staying present and watching people around me absorbed in their own interests.
Having said that, I also realize that people sometimes miss the beauty around them—like a glowing sunset seen from the train window, or the presence of little babies riding with us in the same car. When I was a child, people seemed closer and shared their time together while on board. My mother once told me that when I was a little baby, I cried out loudly because I wanted a candy, she could barely understand what I was saying. But the lady sitting in front of us understood and kindly offered me her candy to help. Acts of kindness like that were all around us. Back then, people could not take their eyes off the baby nearby, and there was a sense of shared warmth. It is my nostalgia. I am not saying the everything was wonderful back then- of course not. But I can’t help feeling that, little by little, we are losing something truly important. It might take time to realize it, but once we do, the loss feels huge.
One day on the train, while I was practicing to be present, I noticed that almost everyone around me were absorbed in their smartphones. I, too felt the urge to check mine- I had things waiting for me too. I wondered: Is there any meaning in trying to be in the present moment, is it just my ego trying to cling to the idea of presence and stillness.
Just then, elderly lady stepped onto the train and looked around. Our eye met. She asked me whether this train was going in a certain direction. I told here it was’nt and she should take the train on the opposite platform. She gave me a small smile with relief of sigh.
At that moment, I thought: this is the answer to why I try to stay present. It may seem like a tiny, ordinary episode, but to me it felt like a seed of happiness. This accumulation of small moments of happiness will, in the end, grow into something truly great.
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