In the enclaves of a world seized by the speed of machinery and the demands of the human web that we ourselves have constructed, while our minds move forward between anaesthetised and exhausted, there still exist small spaces or refuges that remain on the fringes of that: bodies, gestures, silences, networks that resist that pace.
It's true that we are living through one of the best periods in history in many respects. Life expectancy has increased, public health has advanced, and we have access and conveniences that were unthinkable just a few decades ago. However, it's also true that the problems have changed with us. We transformed the world, and the world transformed us back.
And I'm not writing this out of pessimism, nor from that empty nostalgia that idealises other times. Nor am I writing from a false positivism that turns any human discomfort into a quick social media phrase. I'm writing this because I feel there are things we need to talk about.
I don’t know if my environment represents all of society. I live on a Canary Island, in a small town constantly criss-crossed by tourism, and I spend a large part of my week observing people in classes. Observing. Listening. And from that experience, there’s something I can’t stop noticing: it seems we no longer know how to stay still or present.
We find it hard to wait. We find it hard to be bored. We find it hard to be silent. We compulsively check our phones, even when we're trying to relax. We go to yoga and check our smartwatches mid-practice. We organise a retreat and end up focusing more on the photo than the experience. So often it seems we no longer know how to experience something if it can't be shown.
Everything becomes content. Performance. Stimulus. Exposure.
And amid so much hyperconnection, I see increasing disconnection. Exhausted people who don't really know how they are. Tense bodies. Saturated minds. Emotions anaesthetised under layers of noise, productivity, entertainment and constant distraction. As if looking outwards permanently were a way to avoid encountering what's going on inside.
And I write all this knowing that I'm not outside of that logic either. Hyperconnectivity, the demands, the speed, mental fatigue, and the difficulty of sustaining attention also affect me. I also find myself operating on autopilot, distracted, escaping from silence.
QPerhaps that's why my yoga practice became a refuge.
Not as a fantasy of disconnecting from the world, nor as a spiritual identity, but as one of the few spaces where I can still truly hear myself.
A place that brings me back to my body, to my breathing, to noticing how I am. A space where, even for a moment, the noise subsides and something settles. And mind you, I have to be super attentive constantly to avoid dragging the patterns that numb me in life outside of practice into my practice: speed, rigidity, overexactingness, etc.
And perhaps that's part of what we need to remember today: that feeling and listening to ourselves shouldn't be a luxury. That stopping shouldn't be experienced as guilt. That silence shouldn't be unbearable to us. That listening to others with attention and presence is a possible act.
In an age that constantly pushes us outwards, learning to turn inwards can quietly become a form of resistance.
