Posts

What exactly does it mean to be present? It’s a question I’ve written about before, yet here I am again—writing another version of it. Maybe that’s the point. Presence isn’t something you figure out once and move on from. It’s a practice, a remembering. It’s a tricky concept—hard to describe, slippery to pin down. Presence seems to have layers. But maybe the best way to understand what presence is is to first talk about what it isn’t.

I’ve been thinking about when I first fell in love with computers. It started early—somewhere around the third or fourth grade. Our first family computer was a 486, running some version of Windows and, more importantly, MS‑DOS. I remember typing random commands into that black screen, trying to make sense of it. I wasn’t very good at it, but it felt like magic.

Kindness and niceness aren’t the same thing. This may sound like I’m splitting hairs, but once you notice the difference it’s hard to unsee. I first bumped into this idea through the New York stereotype—how people who don’t live here love to say New Yorkers are rude. I don’t buy it. New Yorkers just have a different concept of what counts as rude.

It’s easy to be negative, cynical, and pessimistic. What’s incredibly admirable are those who manage to stay positive in difficult times. Everyone’s version of “difficult” is different, and what’s easy for some may be incredibly challenging for others. I think one reason we might go down the path of negative thinking is that we forget to put things into perspective. At any moment, there are an infinite number of things that could go wrong, which could suddenly turn your delightful Sunday afternoon into a weekend disaster.

The sales pitch of various “social” websites is that they provide you with human connection in the form of “friends,” “followers,” and so forth. I definitely bought into this idea once upon a time, but I no longer buy into this narrative. A hardy begonia from the Brooklyn Botanic Garden—real, tangible, alive. No filters needed.

As a recovering perfectionist, I’ve been learning to embrace a radical idea: it’s better to do a bad job of something than to do nothing at all. The wisdom is everywhere—you miss every shot you don’t take, perfect is the enemy of good, done is better than perfect—but living it is another matter entirely.

I’ve always been wrapped up in the idea of my own identity. Lately, though, I’m trying to let that go. Identity is a curious thing. It’s tricky to define, yet most of us carry some concept of who we are, some internal story we tell ourselves. This reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend who’d spent time at an ashram in India. He went there to meditate, to simply be, perhaps to do nothing at all.

As a child of the internet age, I have barely known a world without it. Although I grew up in a transitional time—computers were commonplace but the internet itself was far from ubiquitous in my childhood—I still find it difficult to imagine life without instant access to the boundless information, entertainment, and superficial connection we all get from the internet.

I, like most people, have a great appreciation for beauty in all its forms. When we see something beautiful, it can trigger an emotional response that transcends mere recognition—be it a sunset painting the sky in impossible colors, a face that catches our eye in a crowd, a landscape that makes us pause mid-stride, or a painting that captures that ineffable quality of light. We’re naturally drawn to beauty, which begs the question: is it beautiful because we are drawn to it, or are we drawn to it because it’s beautiful?

At the yoga studio, many people come and go. Often, you encounter newcomers who treat their first yoga class like a HIIT workout. They rush through transitions, sometimes literally jumping between poses (āsanas). In their minds, yoga seems less like a deliberate flow and more like a race to the finish line. They might substitute five rapid pushups for a single, controlled chaturanga (often missing the pose’s subtleties), and fly through their upward-facing dog without syncing movement to breath.