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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
It started with the suggestion of a “no-news” household. A blackout for a month. The world seemed so grim. The French might call it a malaise, or ennui with the drumbeat of headlines across our myriad home screens.
I was serious about the no-news but hadn’t given much thought to its consequences. No radio, TV or internet news while my partner Joanie and I recalibrated our interpretation of the world round us. Within a week I found that we regained domestic equilibrium away from the gloom of talking heads. It wasn’t just the unyielding reportage and images of wars, famines and sufferings, but extended to the more unfathomable threat: the growing influence of Artificial Intelligence. Already so pervasive, AI is hogging so much attention. Everything I love in art and design, books and music is seemingly being challenged by this great juggernaut. AI is the stranger at the door who is threatening our way of life.
But the elimination of news screens and discussion of the news, this freed up a fair bit of time. Now I could be more mindful of how I managed life from one day to the next. We went on more explorations of the backroads, more talking to neighbours on Main Street, more rambles through pioneer cemeteries.
We live in a heavily forested area near Lake on the Mountain east of Picton. With hundreds of wooded acres at our back door, we can go for hours without seeing a soul. Quiet is the rarest commodity on earth and we have layers of peace at our doorstep.
Taking advantage of the news-free regime, we started walking every morning in towering stands of handsome maple, oak, ash and hickory, taking notice almost for the first time, of the distinctive barks and leaves, and patterns of filtered sunlight. Some trees, not the tallest, usually the most gnarly, became friends, pals we named and talked to.
It was on one of these walks, when I was marvelling the wonky bark of a monster shagbark hickory tree, that it came to me. A eureka moment at the top of the escarpment. I sat on a boney outcrop of the cliff with mounds of scaly bark to be chipped and boiled later to make hickory syrup. Sun seeped through intricate leaf patterns made light darts at my feet. Way over there, several miles away, the waters of Smith Bay at Waupoos. Below me stretching as far as the eye could see, a canopy of treetops in more hues of greens than I knew existed. As many shades as there are numbers, I thought, and they are all green.
The moment was pure enchantment. Sentient, intense, transcendent. Everything AI cannot be. And cannot learn. That’s when I came to understand that enchantment is the AI- Slayer.
I got to thinking about the nature of enchantment. What is it? Where is it? How can we enter the zone where marvel and gratitude are part of everyday living? For me enchantment is a heightened state of being when the senses and emotions converge in a state of awe and appreciation. Enchantment is everywhere if only we look, and are willing to cross the threshold from self to a greater belonging.
I became convinced the more enchantment, the less AI anxiety. As a singular state of mind, enchantment is unique to every individual. Everyone can create their own method of experiencing marvel.
Enchantment requires elements AI cannot create – agency, emotion, mindfulness. Because enchantment requires the intensity of the moment, it cannot be mimicked. Although AI may have already outrun human understanding of what it is doing, no amount of deep learning will master enchantment.
Some happiness is under our control. In my case, it’s a sunrise walk through the gravestones of Glenwood Cemetery. A rafter of wild turkeys strutting through the front garden. Green and gold hummingbirds queuing at the feeder.
That no news blackout on the home front has been extended. You would be surprised how little changes in the news after a hiatus of several months. Same wars, same politics, more suffering. Like an alcoholic giving up liquor, I feel better without the headlines. The boycott experiment has deconstructed our lives enough that I don’t worry about AI much anymore. I can’t wait to get into the woods and see how Shagbark Harry is doing. Her syrup has been bottled.
Alan Gratias lives in Picton, Ont.