Looking from the Other Side
Newletter 12: A Matter of Perspective
I recently traveled to Jamaica and contemplated the nature of perspective. We can look at the same world and see vastly different things.
“I’m tired of America.”
My cousin was out in the backyard of the family home in Jamaica looking out into a valley of lush green forests with rolling mountains behind it, smoking a cigarette. He described his work day of an hour drive, hauling, unloading, operating equipment, dismantling, delivering, and the resultant exhaustion before another hour drive home.
Those words stuck with me as I contemplated my own commute to New York years ago. It was two hours one way. Jamaica seemed a simpler and quieter life that you didn’t need millions to establish, maybe a few hundred thousand US dollars or less. As one of our uncles said, in his youth there was time enough for parties, significant others, and work. In America, by comparison, there was room to work and not much else. Try as we might, I wasn’t sure any of us had achieved a balanced life. We had come together to attend the funeral of a revered elder and in any occasion like this, people contemplated their mortality, took stock of their lives, and wondered whether or not it was too late to make a different choice.
My brother and I went on a walk some time later, thinking about what it would take to live in Jamaica. We had had so many conversations over the years about capitalism, corruption, and the broken promise of freedom. There was open sky here and we mused on the possibilities. He talked about joining The Peace Corps and teaching art to children right in the downtown area. He could spend two years planting roots before getting a permanent position.
My brother pointed to a house under construction with faded blue paint. He knew immediately why the once vibrant color had faded. He works in the garment industry and knows a lot about these things. He thought being a painter might be enough. The Caribbean was a colorful place and he already had a variety of brushes.
I saw less for myself. I did not think my laboratory leadership position was transferable, but I could try. I more so thought of how I’d feel. There were concerns gnawing at me from every corner at home. I could not imagine the same walking along the quiet path that day.
I was half asleep and daydreaming as we bumped along winding countryside roads to the airport with the family home far behind us. Could I live here? I recalled another cousin answering calls from work while driving a group of us to the shops. It hadn’t registered at the time but she too had a personal mobile and presumably, one for work— just like me. I left mine on my night stand, but her life was here. She answered one or the other; she was the boss so work did not stop.
She seemed self assured and tough, her voice stern and tone matter-of-fact. In my own world far away, I had to pound the hospital hallways, two phones in hand, managing my own brands of catastrophe. I was brought back to an adage from one of my friends: “It’s rough all over.” Paradise and clarity for me was everyday life for someone else. The beauty of Jamaica was obscured in a native’s eye by the traffic, the politics, the violence, and the unique beat of life with little pause. Her life was a lot like mine, only seen from a different lens.
I thought of the stress and struggle of America and how two people could be like passing trains, one dying to come and another desperate to leave. It’s not necessarily about the amount of stress, but the type someone is willing to handle. It’s about when you’ve been wrung out to your limit and perhaps realize after coming around past all the many bumps in life, that simplicity is what you crave— again. Like the protagonist in The Alchemist, sometimes you have to take a long journey to know where to find your treasure. It can be hard to tell where to find it.
Lives can be in parallel and reveal cold realities beyond big lights or winding country roads. Dates are disappointing. Work is frustrating. Friends betray you. There is only as much magic as we can perceive in our own little worlds.
But in that moment, still staring out the window of the shuttle bus, I realized that some places help us wash ourselves clean. There is no real escape from anywhere or any life. Our perspective shifts and something once luxurious becomes commonplace. I could run headlong into a place I romanticize only to find that I’ve given up security or comfort for an illusion.
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I returned to the rat race but felt at peace and aligned with Jamaica. Lives can be paralleled in whatever places we are, the same reality with a slightly different cast of characters and settings. The lesson? Learn to live where you are. Find spaces to recharge and methods to reframe your experience. There is no real exit, just another room with different limitations. Sometimes you just have to decide which ones perturb you the least.
My focus after coming back has been holding on to that peace and moving through life in whatever way will help me feel it.
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very centered, which is really hard rn. i had a friend whose dad left the family and started another one. The friend became close with her half-sister as adults. The friend said she always wanted her dad in her life. The half-sister said she always wanted her dad out of her life!
It's all about the street corner were are on when the crash happens.
enjoying your work
Ric
Beautifully written.