The Tangible Matches the Intangible

Part of my experience as a human is that I see words when I speak.

Or at least, that's the closest way I know how to explain it.

When I'm talking, I can almost see what I'm trying to say. And when I can't see it, that's usually when I have trouble saying it.

Maybe that's why I look off so often when I'm thinking or talking to someone. I'm not necessarily looking at anything. I think I'm looking into my mind's eye.

My human experience is internally visual.

There.

That's the best way I know how to say it.

Something happens inside of me first—a feeling, a sensation, an image, something—and then I speak.

That's why speaking feels so powerful to me. It's almost like reading aloud, except the thing I'm reading hasn't been written yet.

I'm seeing and speaking at the same time.

And maybe that's why writing feels so extraordinary.

Writing takes something I can feel and see inside of myself and gives it a physical form. Suddenly there are letters. Words. Sentences. Something that existed only inside of me is sitting there in front of me.

Tangible.

I don't really feel like a writer.

I write.

I don't really feel like a speaker.

But I love to speak.

I don't really feel like a teacher either.

But God, I love sharing what I know.

I love learning something and passing it along. I love helping make something better. And sometimes I am incredibly unhelpful. Sometimes I have to admit, Wow. I know absolutely nothing about this.

Sometimes I should stop talking.

But I try.

Because sharing what we've learned with one another is worth something to me.

My life is so full because of what I've learned from other human experiences. Things people told me. Things I watched someone do. Things I read in books. Things someone figured out long before I arrived here and was kind enough to leave behind.

Cooking is a perfect example.

I did not know how to cook until the pandemic.

Before then, I would have told you I could cook.

I could not.

I could feed myself.

I could make food edible. Nutritious, even.

But delicious?

No.

Now?

Oh, I can cook.

I can cook a sandwich.

And I mean that.

Because somewhere along the way, I started understanding the science of food.

Recipes would tell me to do something, and I would watch what happened when I did. I learned what heat does. What fat does. What salt does. What acid does. I learned that the way something is sliced matters. That the order of things matters. That texture matters.

And eventually, I didn't need someone to tell me exactly what to do anymore.

I had learned enough from other people's knowledge to begin developing my own.

Now I taste.

Adjust.

Taste again.

Adjust again.

Until it gets there.

And "there" is difficult to explain because I somehow know where there is before I've arrived.

I can almost feel what something is supposed to taste like.

Then I keep working until the tangible matches the intangible.

That's the delight.

Maybe that's what I'm doing all the time.

Writing.

Speaking.

Cooking.

Creating.

Living.

There is something inside of me that I am constantly trying to bring into the physical world.

And the older I get, the less quietly I experience the pleasure of finally getting there.

When I'm cozy, apparently I make noises now.

I don't even decide to.

My body gets comfortable, my insides feel comfortable, the two finally agree with each other, and some little sound comes out of me like:

mmmm.

Food does it too.

Oh my God.

Because it's good.

Because I imagined good, worked toward good, and now good is sitting on a plate in front of me.

Even the construction of a sandwich matters to me. The way everything is sliced. The way it's stacked. The distribution of the ingredients.

Please.

Every bite needs to be good.

Every single bite.

I refuse to get to the corner and discover that I've been left with bread.

Absolutely not.

I want the last bite to have the same consideration as the first.

Maybe that sounds like a lot of thought for a sandwich.

But what an incredible thing it is to be a human being who can care that much about a sandwich.

To imagine something.

To learn.

To practice.

To taste.

To adjust.

To create.

To experience pleasure and have your body respond to it before you've even decided what to say.

To take something that existed only inside of you and somehow make it real enough to touch, taste, read, hear, or share with another person.

There are terrible parts of being human.

There are confusing parts.

Painful parts.

There are ups and downs and losses and things we will spend our entire lives trying to understand.

But then there is this.

A thought becomes a sentence.

A feeling becomes a sound.

An idea becomes dinner.

The intangible becomes tangible.

And you get to experience it.

God.

What a thing it is to be here.

With love,