The need for aliveness

What fills your cup now?

I was talking to a friend about ADHD recently, and it reminded me of an article on the basic need to feel alive. The core idea is that each of us has different set-points, thresholds beyond which life begins to feel colorful, vivid, satisfying. These thresholds are a function of our biological makeup, namely the thalamus and Reticular Activating System (RAS) in our brains. Together they mediate the sensory inputs we receive from the environment—much like how an equalizer controls different features of a song we’re listening to—ultimately shaping how we experience our lives.

Some people have more sensitive thalamus/RAS structures than others. Those on the lower end of the spectrum require less intense input to feel alert and alive. On the other hand you have your thrill-seekers and adrenaline junkies, those of us who need constant, highly stimulating activity to feel the same degree of aliveness. All of this has me wondering: is it possible to change our baseline, the boundary beyond which we can experience life as full?

I sit somewhere in the middle of the sensitivity spectrum. I enjoy slower, typically sadder music; I can lay on my couch in silence and daydream pleasantly for extended periods of time; I meditate—and actually find it enjoyable (and terrifying). But this would surprise you if you knew me as a kid. I spent an inordinate amount of time playing video games, much to the chagrin of my parents. And not strategy or puzzle games mind you, but fast-paced, twitchy games like World of Warcraft, League of Legends, and Counter-Strike. School was always a drag for me—too boring, too slow. So were relationships that lacked emotional intensity and intimacy, for better and worse.

It was quite the unexpected shift then when I quit playing video games in my third year of college. Even more surprising is that I filled the ensuing void with what can seem like the total opposite: meditation. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I signed up for the 6-week research study that would teach me how to practice. What appealed to me was the idea that it could radically change my life in a short span of time, a thought that’s surely characteristic of those who hunger for intensity, ironically enough.

Of course, it’s possible that my baseline for aliveness hasn’t changed, only what makes me feel alive. I suspect this is part of the picture, though my gut tells me that I can’t dismiss the role of, for example, meditation and psychedelics. Our nervous systems and psychology shape and are shaped by experience in highly connected, multi-layered, spatiotemporal feedback loops. There are also accounts of people who move through the world differently after having spent extended periods of time in solitude. Free from the frenetic pace of modernity, they tend to become more sensitive, more spiritual, more attuned to the subtler rhythms that pervade existence. This can be deeply unsettling for some as the scaffold of what they thought was true falls apart, especially their notion of themselves. Who are you now when what once held up your world is crumbling? When what used to fill your aliveness meter no longer does?

Aging seems to be an important factor here. As I’ve gotten older, I find myself gravitating towards quieter activity—reading, writing, playing music, long walks by myself in nature, one-on-one conversation. The usual forms of socializing don’t satisfy me as much (though now that I think about it they never really have), nor do things like quick trips and short-term flings. What I want instead is the space to dwell and linger. I want to create beautiful things, things that may require a lifetime to build. To the hurried observer this process will almost always appear as boring, monotonous. They’re not necessarily wrong. But what they don’t notice is how I feel inside when I’m engaged in this way. What’s there is often a different story, one I constantly try to convey in writing.

Perhaps this is what has been haunting me recently. Maybe my basic aliveness needs aren’t being fulfilled by where I live, who I’m physically surrounded with, how I’m spending my time. As I tend to past wounds and continue to explore what brings me joy, I feel compelled to move somewhere new. There’s a yearning for more, for something different, for the kind of depth I can’t seem to cultivate given where I’m at, physically and mentally and emotionally. Fear naturally arises, but so does curiosity: where would I go? Brooklyn? Montréal? Portland? The Bay? And what exactly am I looking for? In many ways, more of the same. Adventures in stillness, stillnesses in adventure. Connection and intimacy. To love and be loved. To open my heart to and for the world.