Arriving at university over a year ago, I was suddenly forced to come to terms with what I want to do with my life. Standing on the precipice between childhood and that vast blank space of time which comes after, I find myself torn between eager anticipation and horror at the prospect of filling all that time. The future has become a topic which preoccupies my mind more often than I would consider healthy.
Something I read this year on my course which strangely resonated with me is Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. I suppose it stood out for the simple fact that I had never read anything like it before. Set on two days separated by ten years, it deals with the mundane day-to-day livelihoods of the Ramsey family at their summer home in the Hebrides. Woolf crafts the complex relations of a family structure with a fragility and intelligence that evokes an unquestionable nostalgia. The stream-of-consciousness narration places inconsequential thoughts to the foreground, whilst in turn devaluing action. Consequently Woolf is able to portray a compelling insight into the inner-workings of the mind. It can be read as a celebration of the present, of living in each and every moment as it happens. Woolf addresses the most fundamental of questions: What is life? In answer she presents us with life; the inconsequential.
Faced with the prospect of the “real” world which is undeniably looming on the horizon, I often find my mind wandering into the potential future. But whilst it may be helpful to plan and speculate, reading Woolf has reminded me of the remarkable beauty of the present moment.
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