Most moments slip by, barely noticed. Our bodies are not optimized for constant delight; they are built for survival. And the more comfortable we get — the more we fall into routine — the more our bodies and minds are able to relax and go into auto.
This is why the first time you drive your first car down a country road feels so much different than the 40th time you drive that same route to and from school or work. That first time is exciting. Dangerous, even. You are in full-on survival mode. But later, after much repetition, you’re able to navigate the twists and turns while thinking on other things. You may even go several miles without “seeing” the road at all, a fact that can jolt us with fear when we realize we were driving on full-auto.
The first time I told my wife Shay that I loved her, I was so hyper aware and full of panic and fear that I couldn’t really say it at all. Part of me thought it was too early to say it, even though I knew on the day she kissed me for the first time that we would spend the rest of our lives together. Telling her I love her was and remains an electric sensation. Now, I can say it all the time. And I do.
But sometimes I say it with all the attention I can muster, and it’s different. It’s different in a way that makes me realize many more of our moments can be different. Instead of just saying “I love you,” I can hold her, take a deep breath, look her in her eyes, and even with this bit of pause and hesitation, I get her full attention. And then slowly, with our gazes locked, tell her in a calm and steady voice — “I love you.”
It brings tears to both our eyes, so different is this kind of directed attention to the moment. And it’s something we can do often and get better at. Attention, it turns out, is a muscle. A mental muscle. And it atrophies if we don’t use it.
Two of my favorite people and dearest friends in all the world are two of the people who are best at bearing their full attention on the moment they are inhabiting, or the thought that is currently swirling. Kevin Kelly and Stewart Brand have retained a childlike wonder about the world partly because they regularly exercise their attention muscles. To be in their presence makes you feel present.
Kevin and I love to delight in the moment we are having by reminding ourselves, even if it’s just when we are eating fish and chips at a picnic table by the beach, that we are “doing the thing.” It’s as grounding in the moment as taking a friend by the shoulders, pausing, taking in a deep breath, and telling them that you love them. Holding them there in that moment. Like a drive on an unknown country road.
Kevin and Stewart have been friends for decades. Over forty years? An entire lifetime of knowing and respecting each other. During the pandemic, I was spending time with one of them and then the other, and something hit me: I have friends today that I will grow old with the same way that Kevin and Stewart grew old together. And it’ll happen with or without my attention. For most old friends, it happens without. You are young people who love each other, and then one day you are old friends who love each other. What you very rarely do — myself anyway — is imagine being old with your friends the same way you imagine being old with your spouse. But it still happens.
Sometimes you get miles down a road, around many twists and turns, without noticing you’re driving at all. A fact that should jolt us with fear and panic.
I’ve been lucky in every facet of my life: love, family, health, art, work, money… but if I had to rank one single place where my luck seems to know zero bounds, it’s been in the friendships I’ve enjoyed. I know everyone thinks this, and for everyone it is true, but I have the best friends anyone could ever ask for. So many that a constant worry is that I’ll never get enough time with any of them, much less all of them.
I have several friends whom I would consider a “best friend.” Yes, there can be more than one. It’s a category, not a superlative. It’s a very small group, and they know who they are, because I’m getting better and better in life with grabbing people and pulling them out of autopilot and into a moment with me and telling them how I feel about them. My best friends know they are my best friends. (What is a constant shock to me is when I discover that this is sometimes reciprocated. I never expect my best friends to consider me their best friends. I always assume they have an even closer relationship with someone else. That’s a different blog post.)
One of my best friends is a guy named Matt. I’m not his best friend, but he’s one of my very best friends. For a couple of reasons: he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met. And by “best,” I mean that I’ve never known anyone with a heart as pure as his, a curiosity as bright, a soul as searching. Even his imperfections are assets. He has one of the highest combos of EQ and IQ that I’ve ever come across. But there’s more than that: He’s one of the handful of people with whom I feel “at home.” Perfectly at peace.
I had surgery for the first time two years ago. It was my first time going under general anesthesia, a pretty scary experience. When I woke up, groggy and full of drugs hours later, I thought of two people: my mom and Matt. Those two people were home for me.
I try to express this to Matt as often as I can, and I love watching him try to absorb it, because he isn’t great at taking compliments. He’s not great at asking people for help, or asking for anything at all. Which is why it’s important to grab some people by the shoulders, or take them into our arms, hold their gaze just long enough that it’s almost uncomfortable, and say, right to their faces: “I love you.”
Start slowly if you must. It’s a muscle, after all. Don’t pull something. Begin with a breath, a simple inhalation, something we do a million times on autopilot without appreciating the life-giving chemical miracle of it all. Tree farts sustain us. Our yawns give them life in return. It’s a miracle any of this happens, or that we got down the last forty miles of road without an eyeblink of awareness…
But forget that. It’s in the rearview. Right now, we are alive and young and here with so much new, open, empty road ahead of us. We have the best friends any of us could ever ask for. We will get to grow old together. Pay attention together. And over and over again, we get to find our way home with one another.
Happy birthday, Matt.
Deep breath.
Wait for it.
You know I mean it.
I love you.
Leave a Reply