*enjoy this accompanying audio, courtesy of my good friend Michael Vertleyb.
It occurred to me recently that I’ve closed the door to one chapter of life, and opened another. It’s funny how easily this can go unnoticed unless you are paying very close attention.
The inevitable monotonies of life weave the days together so seamlessly that you can uproot almost everything—your home, your routines, your surroundings—and yet feel as if nothing much has changed. It’s a bit like getting distracted on the subway and suddenly realizing you’ve missed your stop.
The chapter I closed: five years living in a small coastal town, where I grew up and started a business.
The chapter I opened: New York City
More than a few people have asked how I’m liking it. Strangely, it wasn’t until I was asked that I even stopped to wonder myself.
Here’s the answer I keep coming back to:
I’ll never again experience what it’s like to move from a small town to a big city for the very first time.
And so I am drinking it in… every ounce of it. The energy, the price, the grime, the grandeur, the hustle, and the astonishing abundance.
I know one day I’ll look back and wish I could have this experience again. Newness is hard to come by, especially as you grow older. (I’m not old, but I’ve heard wise people say so.)
Recognizing the rarity of this moment has produced a welcome byproduct: presence.
Taking a moment to marvel at the architecture of both old buildings and new.
Smiling at a stranger you will never see again.
Smiling at a rat walking along the subway tracks.
One of the best things about New York (or any big city) is the anonymity it offers. You can be anyone. You can begin again.
I’m reminded of a great speech by Jerry Seinfeld, given as the commencement at Duke University last spring.
In it, he talked about the idea of falling in love — not just with people, but with everything.
“It's easy to fall in love with people. I suggest falling in love with anything and everything. Every chance you get.”
“I've had a lot of fun in life, falling in love with stupid, meaningless physical objects. But the object I love the most is the clear barrel BIC pen, $1.29 for a box of ten. I can fall in love with a car turn signal switch that has a nice feel to it.
A pizza crust that collapses with just the right amount of pressure.
I have truly spent my life focusing on the smallest things imaginable, completely oblivious to all the big issues of living." - Jerry Seinfeld
This is what I want to practice, now more than ever. Falling in love with the uneven sidewalks. The rush of air when a subway train screams into the station. The way the city smells after a hard rain. Even the little frustrations — the crowds, the noise, the endless battle for space — feel, at this moment, like beautiful proofs of life.
There is a great tenderness in seeing life this way. A deep affection for the fleeting, the ordinary, the imperfect.
It is a reminder that newness doesn’t come from places alone, or from circumstance, but from the eyes with which you see.
And perhaps that's the real art of living:
To greet the world each morning as a wide-eyed traveler in your own life. To be curious. To be fascinated.
To let yourself fall hopelessly, foolishly, endlessly in love with it all.
Here’s what I’ve fallen in love with lately.
(I put my phone on black and white mode… so that is how you’ll be experiencing these photographs.)
