Excerpt from an essay on illusions of self amidst a modern malaise

Over the course of human history, many selves have been noted for achievements both famous and infamous. The breathless stories we tell each other about these people are instrumental in perpetuating the importance of self in our culture. But to what extent does the power we ascribe to these names belong to them versus us?

Take, for example, two of our main fixations of the 20th century: Albert Einstein and Adolph Hitler. The respective brilliance and fury of these men would mean nothing in a vacuum, without complex ecosystems around them and substantial legacies before them. If left alone in the world, each man would light a fire and wait to die. No doubt this is a reductive framing, but in order to challenge our inborn drift towards an emphasis on self, we have to grapple with the fact that there’s no power in a single person.

For a more timely example, consider Jeff Bezos. Bezos is a visionary businessperson, and the effort, intellect and instinct that has streamed out of this one human being is quite a thing to behold. What’s also true is Bezos was born at the exact right time to align himself with the early emergence of the commercial internet, a phenomenon itself set in motion not just decades earlier by the US Department of Defense’s ARPANET, but centuries earlier by the work of Benjamin Franklin and Michael Faraday in advancing our understanding of electricity.

And it was hardly just a matter of timing for Bezos. The spark of his ingenuity needed ample tinder, which it found in a throbbing impatience and desire for comfort that define the human psyche. Scale that across billions of consumers, and yeah, you’ll get a historic business empire.

We’re drawn to mythologizing these people because it indulges fantasies of our own individual significance. Over time, this stifles our ability to imagine what’s possible. We fixate on our personal stories rather than our collective story; above all, we’re taught to believe that each of us is great because we’re born unique. What about believing we’re great because we’re a part of something great?

As I reflect on the notion of self, I’m reminded of one of America’s defining archetypes of the last few decades, encapsulated in a certain kind of car commercial. You know the one: a lone, handsome wolf goes ripping through a big natural vista in his brand-new luxury automobile. Climate-controlled leather interiors and a channel-quilted merino vest frame his satisfied gaze, the sort of gaze you only get when you combine upper-class wealth with upper-class bone structure.

There he goes! The ultimate thrust of self, questioned only by the winding road, which, upon each curve, asks him to briefly divert his attention from his many tidy successes to feel the precise grip of his tires as he banks another turn and affirms his sweet freedom.

Call me unpatriotic, but is there anything less interesting than watching one guy win? These commercials are (highly effective) low common denominators in the unceasing campaign to fetishize American individualism.

In every scene, if you look for it, you will find extraordinary texture and depth. Ultimately, it’s a matter of perspective, and it’s up to you to decide what’s more meaningful, instructive, and charged with potential: the icon of a big man on the open road, or a boundless four-dimensional play that counts systems as its characters, not people.

The automobile propelling that man represents a legacy of ingenuity and sacrifice extending back thousands of years, across countless lives, incorporating everything from the emergence of crankshafts during the Han dynasty of China (circa 200 BC) to formative auto worker labor disputes of the 1930s. The landscape he coasts through is made possible not just by decades of work by conservationists and public servants, but literal epochs of time over which wind shaped rock. And his channel-quilted merino vest owes its existence to a small farm in Australia, where right this moment a shepherd tells his dog to tell his sheep to move through a small opening in a fence to access a big grazing hill where they can soften their backs in the early morning sun. As the shepherd watches his flock move across the land with rounded fluidity, like oil in a pan, he reflects on the curious dynamic of an animal commanding an animal to command animals. In this, he’s swept up in awe of nature’s design. He feels proud and safe. A moment later, he decides he’ll give some money to a neighbor who’s hurting, a man he recognizes as a troubled but essential part of his own human flock.

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Excerpt from an essay on the humble magic of the scientific method

A typical criticism of science, from the perspective of a person scanning the spiritual marketplace, is that it depicts a disenchanted world, a meaningless physical tangle where “dust to dust” amounts to a pile of dust. This argument is compelling at first blush. It feels true, at times, like when a mother’s love is described as oxytocin . But it doesn’t hold up.

One way science is deemed disenchanting is that its origin stories are porous and uncomforting. Let’s examine that.

Here’s a spiritual vitamin I often take: I close my eyes and imagine a tiger’s face emerging from the black of space. I find tigers to be one of the great marvels of Earth. Every time I see a tiger’s face, I’m stunned that such a thing has manifest — in the drama of its contrast and the stillness of its symmetry, I’m tempted to say our whole story is contained. Tigers humble and mystify me, they make me grateful to be alive, they leave me in awe.

There are two leading explanations for why tigers exist. One: God made them. Two: They evolved over billions of years from an inciting microbial lifeform.

Based on what this animal evokes in me when I imagine its emergence — where once there was nothing, now there is this! — does one of these explanations belong in a spiritual category while the other does not? Or are they just different brands of magic? Is the miracle of a tiger bound to the mechanics of its emergence, or are we moved simply by the fact it exists?

Another way science supposedly disappoints is in failing to deliver inspired explanations of underlying causes. Consider psychogenic shivers — what the French call frisson, and you may know as emotive tingles down your spine. These involuntary physiological reactions frequently occur as part of an emotional response to a narrative you encounter; for example, you may feel frisson while watching a movie in which a heroic character experiences a devastating loss.

Imagine two explanations for this instance of frisson. One: It’s a whoosh of breath blown down your spine by a guardian spirit, as a way for that spirit to reinforce in you the value of empathy. Two: It’s an evolved trigger in your biological circuitry, as a way for nature to reinforce in you the value of empathy.

If the former proved true, we would say people guided by spirits learn to love each other and cooperate to build a better world. If the latter proved true, we would say social animals developed bodies that speak in resonant shivers, so they may learn to love each other and cooperate to build a better world.

Is the second explanation so dreary and disenchanted? Does it leave us feeling hopeless and trapped in the apparent meaningless charade of nature? If you think so, perhaps dosage is the issue — help yourself to some more frisson.

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Excerpt from an essay on the disembodied trudge of knowledge workers

Think of a rock god, flung backward under his guitar as it points to the sky. Think of a basketball star, chin hammered outward, flying over opponents toward the rim. Think of a ballerina, her lithe limbs like fireworks bursting in air.

Three bodies rapturously expressed, these are the shapes of their work. What’s the shape of yours?

If you’re any one of nearly 250 million knowledge workers in the world today, it’s nothing to photograph.

The comparison feels unfair, but it’s instructive — these are opposite ends of a spectrum worth considering. On the embodied end, we have ballerinas and brickmasons; in the middle, nurses and chefs; on the disembodied end, analysts, designers and countless other purveyors of information.

For some, the body is essential. For others, it’s at least acknowledged and respected. For most knowledge workers, it’s an inert inconvenience — a pile of flesh and bones to be dragged along while climbing the day’s to-do list. We resent its aching protest and begrudge it even the smallest breaks.

Over many decades, under the weight of technology, economy and convention, we knowledge workers have become a sad sight — crumpled and expressionless, but for our fast-firing fingers. If we think this is acceptable, let alone optimal, we’ve lost our minds too.

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