Gabriella Opaz

Yesterday, while taking the train down to Barcelona, I came across a Ted Talk that I felt was absolutely astounding. Philip Zimbardo a past president of the American Psychological Association and a professor emeritus at Stanford, Zimbardo retired in 2008 from lecturing, and has not only researched the psychology of evil, but has also published The Time Paradox, exploring different cultural and personal perspectives on time.

I had first heard of his work a few months ago on a podcast, and for the life of me, I have no idea which podcast, but the main crux if the argument was essentially those who delayed satisfaction are said to be more successful, happier and more fulfilled.

In this particular Ted Talk, he fleshes out his theory by saying there are generally, 3 types of people:

1. Present Oriented: Individuals who are only concerned with the moment and answer the question “what can I experience now?”
2. Past Focused: Decisions are based on what they’ve experience prior to this moment – “based on past experiences, what will I choose now?”
3. Future Focused: Decisions are based on cost benefit analysis of the future – “If I choose X now, what will be the repercussions or consequences of my choice?”

I adore oil paintings, as there is something intrinsically beautiful about the medium. I love stumbling across an oil painting with such vibrancy and life that I can’t help but smile. Color that jumps out of the painting and literally grabs hold of you, leaving you completely breathless, is a priceless sensation.

When I lived in New Mexico in 1995, I remember taking a long drive through the desert from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, listening to my warn out Cranberries tape on full blast. Coming upon the southern tip of the city, red dirt blanketing the freeway, I saw an art gallery just off to my right with a big wooden door sheltering it from the afternoon light. Curiosity piqued, I quickly exited, dust covering the entire back end of my black Subaru, and pulled into the makeshift driveway.

Inside, the gallery was pristine with gleaming white plaster walls and rustic wooden beams running across the ceiling, giving it both a professional yet cozy feeling. And as I walked across the creaky wooden floor, unnoticed by an attendant, I spotted a flaming red corner of a canvas propped against the back wall. The painting, upon closer inspection, was not only gigantic, but absolutely breathtaking. 3 emaciated looking American Indians sat exhausted, head held low, on equally pathetic looking horses. Their legs and arms were twice the size of their bony bodies, painted in a thick black oil texture. But the painting itself conveyed more than an overwhelming heaviness or exhaustion, because the colors behind the men on horse were so vibrant and alive with various shades of red, orange, yellow and purple that you felt an urge to block the sun from your eyes. The colors conveyed hope, maybe a voyage that would end in something so powerful and peaceful that the current state of pain would completely cease to exist.

I stood in front of that painting for what felt like hours, though most likely, only moments had passed. To date, I have no idea who the artist was, as my 19 year old self was too timid to ask the very professional looking attendant, but the painting has been forever etched in my mind.

The painting you see above was taken along the coast in Collioure in Southern France. There was large sign that stated with perfect clarity, “No Photos”, but I couldn’t help myself. Walking innocently infront of the canves, with my tiny little Cannon hid under jacked, drapped over my crossed arms, I snapped in rapid speed sans flash just when the perfect moment arose.  It’s not the perfect picture, but I think it captures exactly how color alone can instantanously effect the world around it.

In my oh-so-memorable days of high school, I compiled a mental check list of excuses I could conveniently access whenever my overweight and heavily mustached gym teacher required a 1 mile run from us. They ranged from my stomach pains offset from the pre-packaged bologna laid passively between two white cardboard pieces of bread my father loved to stock up on from Cosco to a rare virus that made my legs feel weak and incapable of movement. I even tried the bunion excuse my grandmother taught me in her aging testimonials of perpetual aches and pain, but Mr. Smith rarely bought it. He would smile, shake his head in sympathy and offered me a choice: run or sit on the sideline away from my peers.

One might imagine that sitting alone on the large field on a beautiful spring day, watching the changing colors of the oak leaves sway before you, would be the ideal option for any struggling 15 year old, but part of school politics required participation. A lack of participation equated to a large “L” pasted on your forehead, signaling to your peers that you’re weak and incapable suffering the same torturous exercise as the rest. Lacking complete and total confidence in myself, I learned rather quickly that it was better to duck out of class entirely, choosing the wrath of my mother over the painstaking shame I felt from my peers.

A few years ago, Ryan and I spent Christmas at his aunt and uncle’s house in Norway, where outdoor activity is synonymous with cod – what day would possibly be complete with out it? Having enjoyed a few bottles of wine at dinner, the family sat satiated and content when his aunt turned to me and proposed a “girl’s run” the following day.

“A run?” I repeated back in terror.

“Sure! We head up to the mountains just 15 minutes from here all the time and enjoy the fresh air” she replied.

“You’re serious?! A run?!”

Mind you, this was December, and the thought of running up mountains in frigid temperatures, while the sun only pretends to peek its head over the fjords, was equivalent to suicide for me, but my pride took over.

“Sure, that sounds like fun!” If my nose could have grown in proportion to the lie I had just slipped, family members would have been hitting the deck for dear life.

I couldn’t sleep that night. My heart wouldn’t settle into a restful pace! What if I couldn’t breathe? What if I only got a quarter up the hill and had to stop because legs were too sore? What if I just couldn’t make it? It had been a decade since I ran on anything that didn’t resemble a gerbil’s toy, and the notion of having to physically perpetuate myself forward by my own validation seemed hellish.

The following morning, I donned my running shoes, a wool cap, long underwear and I ran. I ran until my legs ached, but the feeling was ethereal. I loved it! For the first time, my whole body felt alive, pulsing, vibrant and full of energy. I cursed myself for letting my mind get the best of me for so many years, perpetuating the idea that I couldn’t run. But like any mental block, it only takes facing the fear to evaporate the feeling.

Carretera de les Aigües hugs the mountain overlooking Barcelona offering miles of undulating dirt road with a priceless view of Barcelona. Struggling from the heat, with sweat pouring down my face, I couldn’t help but smile when going out for a 10 mile run yesterday.

If only Mr Smith could see me now.

Gabriella Opaz