In reflection mode

The quote that has been ringing through my head as I intentionally do nothing— and that has played in the back of my mind over the past four years — is a common Annie Dillard mind bender: “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” This quote used to scare me. It would come back to me, and I would get that pit in my stomach typically associated with guilt and self-reproach and think about the last day or week or month and try to remember anything of meaning or significance that I accomplished. I would berate myself for my hours on social media, my afternoon naps, my relentless squabbles with my brother, and I would chastise myself for my periods of listlessness, my moments of languishing and my bouts of ennui. My self-criticism was often successful; I credit most of my productivity in high school to the looming threat of not being productive. As so many of us do, I sought out external validation for tangible proof that I had spent my days right. 

But much of that mixed bag of degradation and motivation stemmed from a critical assumption — that productivity was the key to a good day, and a good life. And I don’t think that’s what Annie Dillard was telling me. 

In fact, I’ve done some casual research as I write, and it seems like I got Dillard’s message totally wrong. I’m (unsurprisingly) not the first person to use this quote as a springboard for reflection, and, according to an article in The Marginalian, Dillard was commenting on the value of “choosing presence over productivity.” So, for a change, I’ve started trying presence.

Here’s an example: I can’t count the number of times that I’ve driven down Interstate 280. That’s mostly because on those countless drives, observing the endless stretch of eight-lane road has always seemed secondary to the task at hand — hammering out an essay for English on the way back from a day trip, belting along badly to Taylor Swift after splurging at the mall, dozing on the way back from soccer games in the middle of nowhere, or listening to my dad’s curated cycle of podcasts. 

These days, though, I rarely do any of those things. Now, I can’t help but be startled into silence by the aching beauty around me. Every single time I turn off 92 and see the Crystal Springs Reservoir showing off it’s beauty, I’ve found myself habitually turning to whoever is next to me — usually my mother — and saying, “God, how have I never noticed how beautiful 280 is?” 

They always seem a little confused or underwhelmed, but that’s OK — if only because my mother is not going to college on the other side of the country in two months. I’m cringing as I write this, but the cliche is unfortunately apt: When you drive on a highway every day — even when it’s been dubbed the most beautiful highway in the country — it’s hard to just stop and take in the view. As David Foster Wallace reminds us, our society is so fond of cliches because, while they are “so lame and unexciting on the surface, [they] actually express a great and terrible truth.”

Ending the column here would seem appropriate, but I’m still not sold on the whole “presence” thing. I can’t convince myself that Annie Dillard would want me to constantly pat myself on the back for spending my days listening to all of my impulses and fancies — snoozing, lounging, reading staring at the sunset. 

Instead, I think we can live in duality. We can have days where we race down 280 to the next meeting, the next deadline or the next dose of external validation. And we can have days when all we do is sit and wonder “God, how have I never noticed how beautiful 280 is?” At the ripe age of 18, I’ve decided that neither are worth beating ourselves up over; in fact, I think both are good days. And together, they may just add up to a good life.  

Elise Spenner is a recent graduate of Burlingame High School. Student News appears in the weekend edition. You can email Student News at news@smdailyjournal.com.