Two men are stranded on a deserted island. They’ve got fresh water, shelter and just enough to food to survive. They play games like coconut bowling & bocce and tic-tac-toe to pass the time. Then one morning after a tremendous storm a small shipping container washes ashore. Perhaps it contains a boat or something else that will finally get them off the island. (See also: any episode of Gilligan’s Island).
Instead, the container is stuffed with thousands of the greatest books ever written. Melville. Hugo. Tolkien. A treasure chest of imagination and wisdom. They stare at the flotsam in awe, but also in utter disappointment. The books are worthless. They will do nothing to help them get off the island. They create a game of Jenga, stacking the books higher and higher until they tumble into the sand. They use the books to spell out H.E.L.P. on the beach. The books are of little value to the castaways.
Then, out of pure boredom, one of the castaways opens Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. He’s immediately captivated by the hobbits, by Gandalf and Frodo. The castaway is finally off the island, transported to another world. A world of hobbits, wizards, dwarves and elves. Meanwhile, the other castaway remains bored, depressed and anxious about the future.
This little Tyler Cowen parable isn’t about the castaways, it’s about us—it’s about modern life. We are the castaways. Our greatest poverty isn’t food or water, transportation or shelter. Even the poorest among us are richer than 99% of humans in other countries. Our greatest poverty is the inability to recognize that we have more opportunities than any other humans in history. But despite all those opportunities we often remain either bored, depressed or anxious about the future. Why? Because most of us live with a quiet hope. A longing for a better future. That one day our ship will come in. And everything will change for us. There is a promise that one day we too will get off the island; meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking.
Like the castaways we are unable to see the incredible opportunity for transformation at our fingertips. The internet contains a lifetime of classes, lectures, sermons and insights at our disposal. There are 7,088 free TED talks online. At an average of 14 minutes each it would take nine months to watch the entire catalog. Just imagine all the wisdom to be gained in those 14-minute talks. There’s so much we haven’t experienced yet. So, how do you get off the beach? You take a step. Start painting. Or reading, writing, teaching, filming, cooking, gardening, acting, collecting, restoring, mentoring, training, studying, practicing, praying, walking, etc. If you don’t like it… try something else. It isn’t failure, it’s growth.
So often we fail to try anything new. Why? Because deep down we are terrifically afraid of failure. And, more importantly, we are afraid of embarrassment. “Did you hear that Bill started acting? What is he thinking at his age? Does he really think he can act? What a fool.” Which invites a harder truth: that we often prefer to wallow in boredom than risk failing at something new. Abundance isn’t a blessing if we are too timid to approach it.
Every meaningful life I’ve ever admired has one thing in common: they never stopped learning and growing. They became something I admired. But at some point, they were just a castaway on the beach with no awareness that they could even paint, preach, sing or run. Learning something new changes the way we see the world. Writers see stories in ordinary moments. Artists see color in the shadows. People of faith see the sacred in the ordinary.
The castaways weren’t really stuck on the island. Those books were a ticket to another world. They failed to see their circumstances as an incredible opportunity to “get off the island”. So where do we start? The answer, I think, is to open a book, watch a video, take a step and simply pay attention to what transports you off the island. Because the smallest dose of attention can change the texture of life. It’s like lighting a match in a dark room. The light merely reveals what’s already there. Because abundance alone doesn’t make a life richer, but attention does.
I’d love to hear what you think. Email me at [email protected]. I promise that you’ll hear back from me cause, you know, I’m a real person and all.
Tom Greene is a writer living in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and loyal wiener dog, Maggie. His writing can be found at www.tomgreene.com.
