I recently returned to the movie theatre I frequented through most of my young life. I hadn’t been there in a long while because my family moved to a new community with a new theatre. But this old one still has a special place in my heart. I remember when they built it — on some land where I used to see horses as a child. I worked at this theatre when I was 16. I saw every movie that came out that year; “Meet the Parents,” “The Perfect Storm,” “Gladiator” (four times). I knew every screen, every step and every chair. And so I had a warm fuzzy feeling going back there. But when I strolled through the front doors, I was appalled. You see — they changed it. 

Not just the colourful carpet with patterns of ribbons and cameras — which I loved. Or the epic lobby layout — which was perfect. They changed the whole user experience. It was SELF SERVE! Like some kind of buffet, or a cafe at a community college. Popcorn bags were already filled on shelves behind glass doors and you had to grab them yourself. Get your own candy. Fill your own drink. And they had one poor sucker working at a tiny till.

This thing that I loved, that had felt like part of the fabric of my youth. It just wasn’t the same anymore.

No no no. It was all wrong. I wanted to see the popcorn pop. I wanted to smell it. I want to watch them scoop it up fresh and drizzle it with fake butter. And then, as I walked into the movie with my self-serve snacks, something inside of me broke a little bit. The theatre. The experience. This thing that I loved, that had felt like part of the fabric of my youth. It just wasn’t the same anymore.

Death by a thousand cuts

It’s not always about Change with a capital C. The big things like relationships, jobs, homes, age, etc. are often the singular cataclysmic shifts we measure our lives by: “Before I moved to the new town,”  “After the divorce,” or, “It’s been five years since Dad died.” But sometimes it’s all the little changes along the way. Little experiences with little details that brought simple joys. 

I would appreciate it if we could stop changing… everything.

Let’s be honest, change isn’t always better. Sometimes it’s just cheaper. Easier. Trendier. Maybe I’m showing my age but why are restaurants always rebranding? Why are buildings always renovating? Why can’t we just leave some of them the way they are? Just once, just leave it, please. I would appreciate it if we could stop changing… everything.

For example…

I liked reading magazines in waiting rooms. They changed it. 

I loved how movie theatres used to have a curtain that opened when the movie started. They changed it and put in ads instead. 

I loved the way those little Christmas chocolate balls used to taste. But they changed them. 

I liked when things like vacuums and laundry machines, end tables and desks used to actually work and last, and wouldn’t break after a year. They changed those. (I believe it’s called planned obsolescence, and it’s just… the worst). 

I loved going to the movie store and renting movies. Wandering the aisles and picking them out, and then watching them as a family because you only had one night before you had to return them. They changed that too.

I liked it better when people didn’t put curated versions of their lives all over the internet. They definitely changed that. 

You’ve unknowingly travelled to a distant land and are now homesick for a place you can never return to.

It sneaks up on you. You’re going about your life and then one day you find yourself in a renovated movie theatre holding stale, self-serve popcorn, and suddenly, your hope for the world feels diminished. That’s how it happens — not big sweeps but one tiny change at a time until you look around and the world is a stranger. You’ve unknowingly travelled to a distant land and are now homesick for a place you can never return to. 

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A thought experiment on change

It’s like the Ship of Theseus. That’s right, gather round folks, it’s philosophy time. About 2000 years ago, ancient Greek philosopher Plutarch proposed a thought experiment: Imagine a ship — in this case, the ship of the mythical king, Theseus — and as each plank decays, it’s replaced. Over time, every single piece on that ship is changed to a new one. Perhaps even a different one. Beige sails instead of white. Pine planks instead of oak. Here’s the doozy: After every piece is changed, is it still the same ship anymore? 

The same can be said for each of our lives, these ships we’re sailing that change one piece at a time until we find ourselves on strange waters in an unfamiliar vessel.

The places and experiences you’ve known and loved that have slipped away and vanished one by one, and yet still remain a part of us and our story. What do we do with them all?

‍The ache of change and the gift of nostalgia

All those little things. All those planks of wood, the ropes and fixtures on your ship. The places and experiences you’ve known and loved that have slipped away and vanished one by one, and yet still remain a part of us and our story. What do we do with them all? 

As a start, I do think it’s important to acknowledge all those tiny changes. Grieve them even. Let yourself miss what’s gone. Remember the times and places. Keep loving them. Reminisce and tell your children about them. Then tell them again. Sometimes we’re so busy adjusting to societal shifts (of which there are many) and navigating the “big C” changes of life that we forget to mourn the countless “small c” changes that happen along the way. Especially here in the second half; it’s a time when we’re filled with so many big questions. Existential. Familial. Financial. It can be easy to ignore the little things.

Beyond that? I’m not sure what we do with them. Sometimes sitting with the question is more important than arriving at an answer; an answer that may be different for each of us. 

But don’t be surprised when those little changes sneak up on you. They really can all add up to a pretty big (w)hole. And some days… well some days that can feel like the biggest change of all.

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