Epiphany, in my American Heritage College Dictionary, has three possible meanings. I’m interested in only the third of the three. The first, the Christian holiday tied to the arrival of the Wise Men in Bethlehem. The second, any revelatory manifestation of God, much like the roadside conversion of St. Paul. The third–my kind of epiphany–a comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization. One and two are not for me. I’ve never been visited by any wandering Wise Men. Nor have I ever been knocked off my ass on the road to Damascus, or heading anywhere, for that matter. No, my epiphany–or epiphanies, because we’ve all had many–have been of the mundane kind: no gods, no midday starbursts, no basso voices from aloft. In fact, as I sorted through my epiphanies, the one I’ll tell you about involves only an ordinary park bench in an ordinary town park near an ordinary mountain stream on an ordinary–although absolutely beautiful–sunny day.
I chose this particular epiphany because it’s somewhat topical and reasonably recent. I could have gone back to some of my earlier epiphanies, back to my gullible college days when I sought the meaning of life, over and over again, and found it, over and over again, back to the days of The Teachings of Don Juan and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, back to when I’d write “How true!” in the margins every time I’d find the meaning of life, over and over again–when, if “How true!” were underlined several times, with maybe three exclamation points, it meant I’d found the Mother of All Meanings of Life. Instead I’m going to tell you about an epiphany that’s more workaday, more down-to-earth, one that many of us, possibly, will relate to. Why relate to? Well, besides a park bench and a mountain stream, it also involves a computer.
I should warn you before going any further what follows contains a fairly graphic depiction of the death of a computer, a MacBook laptop. If you’ve a queasy stomach, you may want excuse yourself. If you’ve chosen to stay–and trusting you’re all over 18–here goes . . .
Two years ago I was involved in a readers’ theater production of Twelfth Night. We had rehearsed the play amply and performed it several times in Boulder, so when invited to do a short week’s worth of performances in Breckenridge we didn’t feel the need to do more than one rehearsal in the Breckenridge theater, plus the performances. That meant lots of free time. That amounted to a mountain “vacation:” a few hours’ work evenings, but our days completely free. Cast and crew were offered group lodging, but me–a tenacious loner–I opted for a single room in a downtown hotel. I had packed as per usual: socks, underwear, toothbrush and paste, too many books–and my Mac laptop. Now, truth in storytelling requires I say that at this time I was your typical all-American computer user: I traveled knowing in advance I’d have Internet access, and, before checking the HBO lineup or looking for bedbugs, I’d confirm my Internet access.
I found the hotel’s guest network, signed on, and . . . and here’s where it gets graphic . . . my MacBook began to consume itself. I knew it felt unusually hot only minutes after startup, like a lasagna dish just out of the microwave. And then the screen–remember going to movies years ago, before film was digitized? how the cellulose, so-called “safety” stock would catch in the projector’s film gate and look like it had caught fire? instead of Cary Grant clinging to the roof’s edge, suddenly this almost pretty mosaic of cinnamon brown and honey yellow, the whole screen a wiggling mosaic of melting film? Well, that was the MacBook screen. I did what all quick-thinking Mac jockeys do in a situation like that: I rebooted. Nothing. Dead screen. John Cleese would have said my MacBook was now an ex-computer, it had ceased to be, it was bereft of life, it had joined the choir invisible.
The groundwork was now laid for my epiphany. My MacBook was dead. And this was Day 1 of a full week away from home. I’m sure I didn’t notice at first, but soon, stretched out on the hotel bed, my rapidly cooling laptop sitting useless on my lap, I noticed I was having a physical response. Not just an emotional response: I’m cut off for a week! Not just an intellectual response: How will I keep up with what’s going on? But a physical response: My heartbeat quickened. My breathing was staccato. My stomach felt like its bottom trap had sprung open. I knew it was nuts to have felt this way, but all I could think was, What am I going to do now?
Cue the town park. Cue the mountain stream. Enter the park bench.
I did what, had I a living MacBook, would have been unimaginable: I went for a walk. Outside the hotel I found a serpentine path, the Breckenridge Riverwalk. A mile or so’s stroll led me to the town park and an empty bench. I sat there looking around, watching the river, watching the passersby. I was having a good time. If I’d been paying attention there might have been a basso voice, not from the sky, but from inside: Hey, Ray, isn’t this better? Had it been a Bible moment, it might have been: Hey, Ray, why persecuteth thyself?
By now you all know where this is going, but what the heck.
My epiphany on the park bench did not change me overnight. A week later, back in Denver, I bought a new MacBook. And I did set out pretty quick to keep its use in proportion. Nor did the park bench turn me into a Luddite, sneering at all technology. Far from it. My MacBook today–which is I the one I bought after Breckenridge–is first and foremost my typewriter. Yes, it connects me to the Internet and is my link to email, but I use these features sparingly. Email, for instance–I limit myself to one hour each morning. As for web browsing, I try to restrict it to real research, and even then I gang my searches for what usually amounts to an hour’s browsing late in the day. I did, for a time, subscribe to Freedom.com, the lockout service that blocks the Internet, email, the works, for the number of minutes you specify. I’ve now weaned myself from Freedom.com. Now when I’m typing, I just don’t look anywhere else.
I realize there’s a danger in this tale. It makes me seem holier than thou. I don’t mean it to sound that way, because that’s not how I feel. I’m not a better person for my laptop epiphany. I’m not even sure I’m a better person than the me before Breckenridge. I think I am a happier person. A more patient person. A more relaxed person. And I seem to get a lot more done than the old me ever did. In a funny way, I feel more free. I feel freer since Breckenridge to say yes to things as they come along. I have more focus. I’m a hell of a lot better at following through on things. Best of all, I’ve learned the unbeatable joy of mono-tasking.
So, to wrap it up, we’ve all had many epiphanies. Here an epiphany, there an epiphany. This was a snapshot of one of mine. It’s been fun to go back over this particular epiphany, to see again my MacBook liquefying before my eyes, to re-feel the What-do-I-do-now? panic, to remember the jittery walk to the Breckenridge park, to re-experience the uninstallation of anxiety and to celebrate the reinstallation of a peace of heart, mind, and spirit I’d forgotten was my birthright.
Metaphorically speaking, the Riverwalk was my road to Damascus. And, metaphorically speaking, I certainly was knocked off my ass.
About the Author
Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.
