Outside

“I’m bored.”

My Mama (grandmother) briefly turned from the stove, raising an eyebrow. She was making Sunday dinner, a Hungarian feast of goulash, rantott hus (schnitzel), potatoes, and cucumber salad. It was always a hearty meal that ended with something sweet for dessert.

“Princess!”, she said in her thick Hungarian accent, “you don’t know bored, go outside!” 

I dramatically moaned as I slid myself off the kitchen chair and into a clump on the floor. Slowly, I made my way to the porch, pausing to see my brother sitting on the couch, engrossed on whatever was on television.

“Outside!”

I slipped on my shoes. As I opened the screen door, a burst of fresh country air greeted me. It was the middle of summer, and the acreage my grandparents house sat on was full of life. Buddy, my grandparents' energetic, friendly dog, bounded over to me, sniffing me to ensure I wasn’t holding out on any food scraps. 

I set off walking around the yard. Papa’s garage was there, full of tools and things I wasn’t supposed to touch. The garden was in full bloom, with rows of sunflowers standing up straight, searching for their life force. Not far was the chicken roost, and I could hear them clucking. A swing set, one my Grandpa (Mom’s Dad) had built, stood tall in the middle of the yard.

As an eight year old girl, there really was enough to hold my attention. I had a million different ways to use my imagination in this vast space, yet my mind kept searching for something else.

But I’ve always been this way.

The thoughts kept spinning, and when I was first gifted a cell phone at 14 years old (this would later prove to be a bad idea in the age of pay-per-text-message), I found something I could really be fixated on. It was almost as though it calmed the rumination, while simultaneously creating an addiction. 

Where I would before have to sit with my boredom, or go outside, now I had this device in my hands. This bright red Nokia, that’s most likely sitting at the bottom of a landfill somewhere, was captivating. I could call or text my friends whenever I wanted without the fear of someone picking up the phone to kick me off so they could use the internet. I carried it with me always, and way back then, in 2001, it became an extension of me. 

(I did have to take a brief break from cellphones once the contract was up and my parents realized I had zero self-control when it came to a text message limit, but the ensuing pager they gave me for a year is a story for another time).

I laid down on the grass. Buddy, half curious and half concerned, came over to lick my face. I’m sure I had ice cream in the corners of my mouth, since it took all but thirty seconds of begging Mama for a mid morning sweet treat. The acreage was lined with popular trees and I could hear the distinct rustling of their leaves as I closed my eyes.

“Missy!” I heard my Dad shout. My parents had arrived. Occasionally on Saturday evenings my brother and I would come for a sleepover, which consisted of a lot of sugar and the 8 p.m. Saturday night movie. We never knew what movie we would be watching, but that was the beauty of life before Netflix. 

My eyes popped open. “Oh, thank goodness”, I thought, “saved from the boredom.”

After filling ourselves to the brim (anyone with a European grandmother can attest to the fact that this was mandatory during Sunday dinner), we made our way to the car. My grandparents smiled as Papa and I shouted back and forth “I love you more!”, “I love you more, more!”, “I love you more, more, more!” He always let me have the last say, but I suspect that wasn’t the truth. 

My parents car made its way down the long gravel driveway, turning off so we could get back on the highway that would take us home. I always looked over my shoulder to see Buddy running along with the car until he instinctively knew it was too far.

I suppose what I’m saying with all this, is that in my nostalgia for my grandparents acreage, a place I can no longer go filled with people I can no longer see, I wish I had paid more attention. I wish I had asked my Mama more about Hungary. I wish I had asked Papa to show me the tools in the garage. I wish I had laid down on the grass and stared at the sky while inhaling that pure country air. I wish I had allowed myself much more time to be bored. 

Cell phones are the great distractor of our time. They steal the seemingly mundane moments that, once passed, you’d give anything to go back to.

Don’t let the awe of the present moment be lost. You only get to see it once.