Love says 'I am everything.' Wisdom says 'I am nothing.' Between the two, my life flows
- Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
I use my almost-expired free trial of CLEAR to skip the medium-long security line in SFO early on a weekday morning. For this brief moment—as my corneas are scanned before an airport employee opens the secret pathway stanchion—I am materially wealthy, a seeker of efficiency.
I turn my airplane tray table into a desk for several hours as I hurtle over mountain ranges, then cornfields. Among the clouds, I am a grant writer, a pretzel eater, a hybrid employee, someone who theorizes about the lives of flight attendants, and a hopeful contributor to the community-led food systems of the future. My focus wanes, and I turn to the miraculously diverse entertainment options loaded into a digital rectangle between me and the head of the sleepy man in front of me. Here, I am an indulgent fan of cheeky dialogue and remarkable acting—I have seen this episode of Succession three times already.
I hug my mom among the frenzied but familiar chaos of honks, car engines, and fluorescent yellow vests that lurk past the Arrivals sign at JFK. I am a walking paradox: a New Yorker who doesn’t seem comfortable with all the noise. All of a sudden, though, I am a son—a self that tends to stay with me, waxing and waning in resonance, but salient as ever as I tell her and my dad about my flight over bean salad at the dinner table. Being with my parents brings me joy and inspiration. Their trust and love open me up and ease me into reflection. I become a thinker, one who wonders aloud about how we can create the more beautiful world our hearts know is possible, who gets to express their concerns about their personal finances and a planet in the grips of climate chaos and everything in between with a felt sense that I am being heard.
I climb the stairs and run into my sister, and as I look at the way she’s organized her room—the intentionally placed books, the curated spaciousness that invites her to continue on her prolifically creative and expressive path—I am a proud, inspired brother. She is taking a leap, the very leap we all read about in the stories we love. This very self is roused again the next morning as my brother heads for the door, eager to spend another day honing his craft among odd hours and unexpected demands, an embodiment of what so many of us know to be true, but fail to act on: that you get out what you put in.
I arrive in Woodbury, New York for a few days as someone else: a loyal, fun-loving, nostalgic friend surrounded by much of the same. A seamless user of elaborate inside jokes, a former basketball camp rival, one-tenth of an impressively lively and equally life-saving group chat that has thrived in several different formats since high school. I am a sudden enjoyer of Coors Light, an eager question-asker and learner of games, a night owl. I don’t see these friends—no, brothers—as often as I’d like, but we excel at the art of not missing a beat. I cherish our bond, forged through time, competitiveness, stupidity, and love, as much as just about anything else in this life.
I drive several hours to Cape Cod—I am an irritated manager of back pain—to see the love of my life in her element, at peace with the humidity and ecstatic without shoes. I am a lover, a partner, the luckiest man alive. She runs like the wind in Falmouth—I am a superfan, a photographer, an injured runner itching to join the fun someday soon. She’s been talking for months about how good the outdoor shower will be, and as with most of life’s easy-to-miss pleasures, she’s right and then some.
Later, I team up with her dad and her best friend for some buzzed beer pong and now I am a former collegiate basketball player who is supposed to be good at these things. Instantly, I am a goofball—they are the perfect duo with whom to take myself less seriously, to enjoy the here and now, and the purple paper crowns that we’ve dug up from the corner of the garage don’t fit our heads quite right. The next day, I marvel at humpback whales and the magnificent, rippling open ocean alongside her mom and we are both animal lovers, enjoyers of the breeze. She has done this before, but seems to enjoy it just as much, if not more—this strikes me as very wise.
I return to Long Island for a few final days, and I am an itcher of mosquito bites, a dishwasher unloader, an anxious purveyor of the abundance of dairy-free Ben & Jerry’s that crowds the freezer. I browse old books and trinkets, bouncing from an egoic high school sophomore to a stressed college junior. I cook dinner with my mom and I am a sous chef, temporarily freed from my determined consumption of large bagels. I watch Data counsel Worf while I show my dad the Voice Memo function and I am both a trekkie and a zillenial. The mundane is extraordinary and fulfilling with these two.
I make my way to New York City, with its unrelenting but somewhat intoxicating energy, to walk miles and miles on a Friday evening with a beloved friend who I hope to have in this life for as long as it may last. I am an aspiring philosopher, a tourist in a place I grew up so close to, a subpar comedian, and I am utterly alive listening to stories of her family and her poignant take on whether we can trust our gut feelings or not.
I spend my last day on the East Coast setting up for and immersing myself in the brightness of my sister’s engagement party, an astonishing recognition of love and its boundlessness. Among a sea of family and friends—from “known you since zero” to “hi, my name is”—I am nothing and I am everything. In between the two, my life flows.
This, Elias, might be my favorite piece of your writing yet. Multitudes.
A gift for words. The descriptions so vivid and clear. It was such an amazing trip. You made our moments complete and alive! Thanks to you, my life flows too! :) 💜