That line stays with me. An experience does not become ours simply because it happens to us. It needs to be carried somewhere — into language, into the body, into a small repeated ritual.
Hot water, cold water, illness, memory. Nothing neatly solved. But something is held differently.
Thank you very much for stopping by to read my reflections.
You said that the experience doesn’t become ours just because it happens.
I was wondering what does it mean for the experience to be ours.
Thinking about possession has always been a curious guide. I heard from Sam Harris this story that I really like: when we are looking at the sunset we feel moved by it, so much that we want to capture it, so we reach for our phones and take a picture. Are we going to look at that picture later? Is so that we can remember there was a sunset? There is one every day.
I thought that we may want to stay in that moment forever, we want to grasp it. This is the negative aspect of ownership. But then I realized that sometimes you want to write a poem from the experience. It is not so much about grabbing it but adding to it, so you can feel part of it, you can feel somehow like you made the sunset.
There is this aspect of control, of representation, but also identity.
Your comment is very inspiring because I never thought about this in relation to integration. I think I could keep pulling this string and write another article 😅
I love the distinction you draw between grasping an experience and adding to it. Taking a photo can sometimes be a way of trying to hold the sunset still. But writing a poem from it feels different. It is less about possession and more about participation — letting the experience pass through you and return to the world with something of your own shape in it.
Maybe that is one way an experience becomes “ours”: not when we capture it, but when it changes form inside us.
I would love to read where that string leads if you decide to keep pulling it.
“Seeing something is not discovering it.”
That line stays with me. An experience does not become ours simply because it happens to us. It needs to be carried somewhere — into language, into the body, into a small repeated ritual.
Hot water, cold water, illness, memory. Nothing neatly solved. But something is held differently.
Thank you very much for stopping by to read my reflections.
You said that the experience doesn’t become ours just because it happens.
I was wondering what does it mean for the experience to be ours.
Thinking about possession has always been a curious guide. I heard from Sam Harris this story that I really like: when we are looking at the sunset we feel moved by it, so much that we want to capture it, so we reach for our phones and take a picture. Are we going to look at that picture later? Is so that we can remember there was a sunset? There is one every day.
I thought that we may want to stay in that moment forever, we want to grasp it. This is the negative aspect of ownership. But then I realized that sometimes you want to write a poem from the experience. It is not so much about grabbing it but adding to it, so you can feel part of it, you can feel somehow like you made the sunset.
There is this aspect of control, of representation, but also identity.
Your comment is very inspiring because I never thought about this in relation to integration. I think I could keep pulling this string and write another article 😅
Thank you very much!
Thank you for taking the thought so much further.
I love the distinction you draw between grasping an experience and adding to it. Taking a photo can sometimes be a way of trying to hold the sunset still. But writing a poem from it feels different. It is less about possession and more about participation — letting the experience pass through you and return to the world with something of your own shape in it.
Maybe that is one way an experience becomes “ours”: not when we capture it, but when it changes form inside us.
I would love to read where that string leads if you decide to keep pulling it.