We Lost the Beauty of Life Somewhere in Our Hands
Today, it seems I've fallen out of love with movies and shows. That's something that hits excruciatingly hard, because at one point in time, they were all I had. The intimacy is gone, and in more than just television. We’ve traded most journeys for convenience, and in doing so, life's simplest things that were truly valuable has been lost. That's why shows—especially those feel-good dramas and corny sitcoms—seem to lack the magic they once held. We can pick up our devices and within seconds, have access to anything we want. It truly strips away the fun we once knew, and it makes me miss my childhood so much more.
For most people, the "early" 2000s typically refer to the time between 2000 and 2004. However, for me, that period extended through what is commonly known as the mid-2000s, roughly from 2005 to 2009, to the early 2010s. Coming from a less off family, I didn't experience the technological advancements that many others, including my older siblings, did at the time. While the world moved forward with new innovations, my experiences remained rooted in an earlier technological era.
One of my favorite memories from my childhood involves thunderstorms and tornadoes. Those storms never stirred fear in me; they brought a sense of serenity. My grandma's house, a well-kept, middle-class home, became my refuge. More than my own apartment (or trailer, because we moved quite often), which was thick with the smell of my mom's Black & Milds and the noise of my siblings, my grandma's home was my sanctuary. She smoked cigarettes too, but those felt somehow more acceptable, more in line with what my peers were used to. I preferred smelling like cigarettes at school because, while it might have been noted, most of my classmates were more familiar with it and could tolerate it more.
During those storms, my grandma would bring one of her many metal folding chairs to the hallway and advise me to do the same. We’d sit right at the doorway of the foyer, watching the storm unfold. Our spots were strategically placed by the hallway closets, just in case the storm worsened and we needed shelter. It was a ritual we both knew--and still know--so well. She had routines based on the storm's direction: if the wind howled from the east, she’d head to her room to check the weather channel; if it veered from another direction, she’d move to the kitchen, sitting in the doorway of the den to watch the same channel. The house was surrounded by tall, swaying trees, and her precision in choosing where to sit was almost scientific.
I especially loved the days when these storms would last all day. When the storm would calm briefly, she’d turn on the music station on the radio, and her shoulders would ease of tension. Since she kept up with the weather, this didn’t happen often--but sometimes, she would be in the middle of cooking when the storm began. During these calm times, we could finally eat (she never denied me food during storms, but I would always wait just because). Those rare moments were golden. Soft melodies would drift through the air as we ate, and the rain would still pitter-pat outside the windows--so calming. The dogs would be sitting there, begging for food, or hidden away from the thunder somewhere.
Food tasted different during those times—somehow, a hell of a lot better than usual. Maybe it was the coziness or the shared solitude, but meals during those storms were unforgettable. And then, inevitably, the storm would pick up again. The faint sound of the TV in another room would announce the storm’s resurgence, and my grandma would switch the radio back to the weather station. Like clockwork, we’d get back into position, sitting side by side, listening to the wind howl and the rain hammer against the windows.
I miss the lack of advanced technology during those days. Yes, there were phones and TVs, but they were much more toned down. There was something profoundly comforting in their simplicity. I didn’t need my little phone during a storm. A silly game wasn’t as calming as the storm. Today, our gadgets are gateways to infinite distractions, and the gratification they offer is instant but hollow. Back then, every moment felt fuller, richer, injected with a sense of presence and a deeper connection to the world around us. Nowadays, there’s a thick disconnection between people, the world, and reality. A disconnection that has always been there, but now, it feels more profound. I would like to say that I am happy with the world’s advances. I am, don’t get me wrong—but to go from such an intimate time to such a distant era kind of sucks, that's all.
I really miss those moments. The memory of those storms, my grandmother's constant checks of the weather channel, the songs that played faintly at the eye of the storm, and tastes of those meals—these are not just memories, but feelings that I crave. They are the hands of a past that cradled me, moments that felt real, tangible, and full of life. Now, in our never-ending drive of efficiency and speed, I believe we've lost the ability to appreciate the relaxed, simple, journey itself. And with that loss, we've also lost a part of ourselves. Every raindrop, every blow of wind, every song from the radio—it all meant something back then. We were not just living through storms; we were living through stories, and I wish I appreciated that at the time.
