Vachon Imagined

I know a fellow writer who does something extraordinary.

He writes about objects.

Not people.

Not politics.

Not philosophy.

Objects.

And somehow, they become alive.

A chair is no longer a chair.

A spoon is no longer a spoon.

A forgotten photograph becomes a conversation.

An old watch becomes time itself.

There is an emotion in the way he writes that cannot quite be explained. It feels intentional, although neither of us could prove such a thing. Perhaps that’s the nature of art. It communicates something long before it explains itself.

Objects fascinate me for a different reason.

They don’t ask to be judged.

A rock doesn’t wonder whether it’s successful.

A coffee mug doesn’t compare itself to the mug beside it.

The number seven doesn’t lose sleep because someone prefers the number eight.

Objects simply exist.

Perhaps that’s why I love mathematics.

When my mind becomes noisy, I solve math and logic problems.

Not because I need the answer.

Because mathematics has no opinion of me.

It doesn’t care whether I’m intelligent.

It doesn’t care whether I should be doing it.

It doesn’t care what happened in my childhood or whether I’ve had a productive day.

It asks for nothing.

Actually…

Even saying it “asks” is too much.

That is already relationship.

The equation simply is.

And then I arrive.

Humans do something remarkable.

We take what simply is and make it personal.

A number becomes “my ability.”

A career becomes “my worth.”

A relationship becomes “my happiness.”

God becomes “my God.”

Everything becomes about us.

Relationship creates story.

Story creates identity.

Identity creates suffering.

But before there was relationship…

There was simply life.

Before a math equation was solved…

Before a baby was born and given a name…

Before a body acquired a personality…

Before success and failure…

Before rich and poor…

Before good and bad…

There was being.

This isn’t a rejection of the world.

It’s a remembering.

Because beneath every label, every opinion, every identity, something remains untouched.

The equation never became anxious.

The mountain never became proud.

The ocean never became ashamed.

Life never stopped being life.

Only our relationship to it changed.

There is a quiet innocence before the story begins.

A place where nothing needs defending.

Nothing needs proving.

Nothing needs becoming.

Only being.

Peace is not something we create.

It is what remains when everything stops being about us.

And every once in a while, if you’re very still, an ordinary object reminds you of that.

Not because it possesses peace.

But because it has never forgotten it.