I can't help thinking we’re just remembering what our grandparents took for granted

By the Be Awake Aware Alive team

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There is a specific kind of vertigo that hits you when you are in the middle of a "simple" act. For me, it was while I was out in the back garden, wrestling with a sagging wooden fence panel. A storm had loosened the posts, and a few slats had rotted through. I had watched three different DIY videos on my phone, meticulously noting which screws to use, whether to use postcrete or gravel, and how to check for level with a spirit level I'd just bought. I was sweating, proud of my "handyman" moment, feeling a connection to the "old ways."

And then it hit me. My grandfather didn't watch a YouTube video to fix a fence. He just did it. He didn't measure twice and cut once because an influencer told him to; he did it because that was the only way to keep his chickens in and the wind out. He didn't have a "project" or a "weekend renovation." He had a broken fence, a bag of nails, and a Tuesday.

In that moment, I realized that much of our modern life—the curated hobbies, the quest for authenticity, the "mindfulness"—is just us rediscovering what our grandparents took for granted. We are not learning anything new; we are simply remembering. We are trying to reconstruct a world that was dismantled before we were old enough to appreciate it.

I'm not talking about the absence of smartphones or the internet. I'm talking about a deeper, more fundamental skill set that has evaporated from the collective consciousness of our generation.

The Art of Boredom

‍My grandfather could sit on the porch for hours. No book. No phone. No "podcast." He just sat. He watched the clouds, he listened to the birds, he observed the traffic. He wasn't "meditating" or "practicing mindfulness." He was just... existing. Today, we pay for apps to teach us how to sit still. We schedule "digital detoxes." We treat boredom like a disease that must be cured with stimulation, rather than a state of being that allows for quiet thought.

He took stillness for granted. To us, stillness is a luxury that requires a weekend getaway.

The Knowledge of the Land

My grandmother didn't need a weather app. She could smell the rain two hours before it arrived. She knew which plants in the backyard were edible and which would kill you. She knew that the tomatoes were ready not because of a "harvest date" on a seed packet, but because the vine had a specific smell.

We, on the other hand, read labels. We check "organic" certifications. We google "Is this mushroom safe?" We pay a premium for "farm-to-table" experiences. For her, the table *was* the farm. There was no separation. We are spending a fortune to get back to a starting point that was free.

The Art of Mending

There is a cupboard in everyone’s house that I call "broken things to fix tomorrow." It's filled with headphones with a frayed wire, jeans with a ripped knee, and a toaster with a faulty lever. The modern solution is to throw these things away and buy new ones.

My grandfather fixed things. He had a coffee can full of screws, a roll of duct tape, and a patience that seemed infinite. He didn't fix things to save the planet; he fixed them because that was simply what you did. The idea of discarding a functional item due to a single broken part was alien to him.

Now, "repair" is a niche hobby. We have "right to repair" movements because the corporations have stripped us of the ability to do what was once universal.

The Silence of the Night

Perhaps the thing I envy most is the silence. My grandparents didn't know the sound of a neighbor's air conditioner clicking on, the low hum of a refrigerator that never stops, or the blue glow of a TV left on standby. They had the sounds of insects, the creak of floorboards, and the wind.

Today, we struggle to sleep. We buy white noise machines to drown out the hum of the city we built. We chase silence, while they simply lived in it.

So, what does all this mean? Are we nostalgic for a time we never knew? Partially.

We have traded resilience for convenience, and we are paying for it with our mental and physical health. We are hustling to achieve a state of peace that our ancestors simply were.

But it's not about going back. We don't want to churn our own butter again. Instead, our constant feeling of "remembering" is a compass. It's a deep memory of a human experience that still exists, buried under the weight of modernity.

When we fix a fence post with our own two hands, we are not being a "DIY enthusiast." We are remembering that things can be repaired rather than replaced.

When we sit in the yard without our phone, we are not being mindful. We are remembering how to be still.

When we patch a hole in our shirt, we are not being "sustainable." We are remembering that we are not meant to be disposable.

I used to have afternoon tea with my grandma every Sunday and I can't help thinking that we’re just remembering what our grandparents took for granted. And I also can't help thinking that the future of our well-being depends on our ability to do a little more remembering, and a little less consuming.

With thanks to cottonbro studio at pexels.com for the great image

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