"Everything looks permanent until its secret is known," wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson in his essay "Circles."
So much of what we see every day, we call permanent. Maybe this is a survival instinct: we need, at some level, to tell ourselves that the world around us is sturdy, stable, reliable—even when we know it's not.
But we also know deep down, as Emerson did, that permanence is an illusion. When we really take the time to look at the things, places, people and life around us, it's clear that what seems permanent and stable on a daily basis is not so.
If something looks permanent, then perhaps what's required to remember its "secret" is a shift in perspective—in time or space—to go beneath the surface of whatever seems fixed.
If we change our reference of time—zoom way, way out—we can see how fleeting our life really is. What appears permanent for a day, a month, or even a year rarely looks that way across decades or a lifetime. Stretch the frame wide enough, and all permanence collapses.
“Nothing is secure but life, transition, the energizing spirit," Emerson wrote in "Circles."
Or, if we zoom out in space—say we take a bird's-eye view of our favorite stretch of coast—we see, too, how much changes. “There are no fixtures in nature,” Emerson observed. “The universe is fluid and volatile. Permanence is but a word of degrees.”
Several years ago, during a visit to the Nantucket Whaling Museum, my family and I attended a talk in which we learned that the island could be underwater in about 400 years. The idea alarmed my young kids so much that they talked about it for weeks afterward. Even now, they still mention that specific number if you ask them how much time the island has left. There's a sense of loss in their answer.
It doesn't matter that they'll be long gone by then. The idea that this permanent, tangible place will be gone one day—and in a time frame they can somewhat wrap their heads around—gives their memories on the island a new perspective. After that talk, we gained a new appreciation for the days we were fortunate enough to spend there.
Maybe that should be the case with all places, everywhere. Standing at my kitchen sink, doing the same dishes for the third time that week, when viewed from a longer, higher perspective, is a slice of time and space that is transient and rare, even if I see it as commonplace, routine, and not what I'd prefer to be doing.
The "secret" of change is that in most cases, it can't be seen at all. We know this, I'd argue, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. But when we remember Emerson's words, we begin to appreciate more deeply those parts of our lives—of our life itself—that seem permanent, but are most definitely not.