The Elevator Metaphor

The way inspiration comes to me as a writer is very strange. A lot of times it requires me to go through something or feel something very intensely and then the writing almost does itself. Other times I think about things until there's no longer space for them in my head and then I move them here. But my favorite thing, by far, is when something very small happens and everything seems to align perfectly without me having to think about it. I'll hear someone say something, or I'll have some unexpected interaction with someone - and something inside me seems to scream, "Wake up!! The world has handed you exactly what you need to be writing about!!"

So that's what I'm doing now. Or trying to. I'll be honest, I'm not sure how to write about my love for those tiny, spontaneous, genuine moments in life that seem to be made up exclusively of humanity at its absolute finest. I don't think there's a way for me to tell you about those moments in a way that would make you feel what I feel when they happen to me in real time. There's a good chance you wouldn't value it the way I do anyway, and that's okay. People are different.

People are different, but that doesn't mean there's no room for or reason to connect with each other. So I'll start this story by telling you that I hate elevators. Okay... wait. I used to hate elevators. I hated them because I'm claustrophobic and generally antisocial, which are two things you shouldn't be when you're stepping into a small metal box full of strangers. I hated them because I've always hated awkward silences, and I've equally hated the attempts to fill them with small talk. I hated them because I've always feared getting stuck in one, with no way out and no choice but to stay there until help arrives. You get the idea.

But would you believe me if I told you a single elevator ride, on a day that was as ordinary as any other, changed that for me completely? You have no reason to, but let me explain.

Most days, I step into the elevator and I'm met with awkward eye contact and almost painful silences. This particular day was no exception, until the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and neither myself nor the guy in there with me even halfway stepped out.

"That's my bad, I'm sorry," he said, which surprised me. I've found that most people lack that courtesy in these situations. "I accidentally hit that button but that's not where I'm going," he continued.

"You're fine," I told him. "No worries."
"Yeah but I hate holding people up, y'know," he went on. "Especially when you've got, well.." and gestured towards all the gear I had carried in with me.

"I'm serious, I'm not in any hurry," I told him. "Don't worry about it."

And then we made it to his floor, which was one below mine, and as he stepped out he smiled. "Hope the day is good to you!" he said, and thankfully I was able to respond just in time before the doors shut and the small metal box carried me to my floor without interruption. Which, lucky for me, was just what I required in order to digest what had just happened and to come to the realization that an elevator is a great symbol for humanity. Hear me out.

THE ELEVATOR METAPHOR 

• We're all on different levels. We're all coming from and going to different places, but for a few moments we're all in the same small space together. We may as well make those moments good. 
• Sometimes we step off too early. We're too anxious. We think we're too ready. We aren't patient enough.
• Sometimes we miss our floor because we're wrapped up in our busy schedules, looking at our screens or talking to someone about something that may or may not even matter.
• The doors open and close continuously. If you miss an opportunity to get on or off, if you pass up the chance to level up or come back down, the next one will come soon.
• We run the risk of getting stuck. Every time. Every time we step in that small metal box. Every time we step out into the world. We run the risk of getting stuck where we are. And yet, we continue to take it. Sometimes help has to come for us and sometimes we wait it out but regardless, we continue to jump on. Over and over and over again. Every time we pull our heads off of our pillows and shove our feet into the soles of our shoes, we're brave enough to take one chance after another. 

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There are a lot of things that I don't know and there are a lot of things I'll probably never truly understand. I like that. It motivates me. It's part of why I decided to make a life out of studying people.

But there are also a lot of things I do know.

I know there's a woman sitting to my left in the coffee house who has spoken at least three languages since we've been here, and I'm amazed. I'm amazed because her world and mine have come together for a small fraction of one day, even though they'll go entirely separate ways again once the espresso in our cups is gone.

And then I saw this, scribbled on a note card in the coffee house bathroom. A reminder that we're all a liiiiiiittle bit more fragile than we might like to admit. The truth of it is, we live in a culture where we keep up with people via social network profiles. Which is okay, except for the fact that those pages are essentially just the highlight reels of everyone's lives. People tend to not post about their insecurities, letdowns, failures, or anxieties. So a lot of the time, we don't see that. We don't see it, so we think it isn't there. We see that someone had a good day, so we assume they're happy with their life- and that's dangerous. The note, for me, was a reminder to wake up and start paying more attention.

I also know that I've just handed peanut butter crackers and a spare blanket to someone on the street who may or may not trade them away for drugs or money to feed whatever addiction they might be struggling with. But at the same time, the humanitarian in me prefers to continue believing that they'll still be put to better use out there somewhere with someone else than in the backseat of my car.

I know that I'm lucky to get to do what I do, even on days when it takes just about everything out of me. I used to have this idea in my mind that I'd find work I loved doing and that every minute of it would always be good. I've since learned that that's far from the truth. I've learned, both through doing the work and through talking with people about it, that I tend to love it the most when it's hardest. When it's discouraging, and disheartening, and even when I feel like walking away from it. Because it's the type of work that causes me to lose drastic amounts of faith in humanity, but it's also the thing that seems to grab me by the shoulders and shake me, yelling to me that if I want the world to be better, I have to do something that/be someone who makes that possible.

I know, most importantly, that that's exactly what I'm determined to do- and I'm willing to take however many risks I need to in order to make that happen. I know that doors will open and close and that I may get stuck sometimes. I know I'll have to stop along the way, losing some people but also meeting new ones.

I know that I'm no longer reluctant to step on when those elevator doors open and with your best interest at heart, I highly encourage you to follow.

xox, goodnight and stay kind