A couple of days ago, I met one of the most interesting people I’ve come across in a very long time. When I’m on my own, I’m usually swimming in my thoughts—wondering if there are others who think the same way I do. I can’t quite explain it, but instantly, I felt seen. In just a short conversation, they gave me a book recommendation—and I jumped into it.
The book was The Untethered Soul by Michael Singer. In it, Singer talks about sitting in a state of consciousness outside of your experience, as if floating—aware that you are aware. The book leans heavily on yoga and Buddhist principles, suggesting that enlightenment is achieved by being able to sit in the space that answers the question: “Who are you?” It reminded me of the exercises I do every morning to practice gratitude and try to center my thoughts from a place of calm and intention. It was an interesting read.
Last night, I went to help a friend photograph the students of Henninger High School’s performance of Hadestown. I’d spent the last week thinking about this person and how this book ended up in my path at this particular moment—but I chose to just experience it as an audiobook while going about my day, letting its ideas echo in the back of my mind.
I grabbed the camera and started taking pictures. While I was doing that, I found myself in one of those moments where you kind of jump out of your body and just watch yourself doing something—like witnessing a scene from a movie. I could see myself getting ready to compose and take a photo, but I wasn’t thinking about it. I was just watching my body move, press buttons, and click the shutter at whatever was in front of me.
It was funny—everything in the play felt like it was moving in slow motion, and I was somehow able to move around and get the shots. All I could think at the time was how incredible these students were. Some of them were doing this for the first time, and here they were, giving it everything they had. I felt filled with emotion—excited every time I pressed the shutter—and I just kept thinking, I can’t wait for them to see themselves the way this moment is showing up through my camera.
After packing everything up, I got in my truck. And instead of just driving home, I sat there, overwhelmed with a sense of happiness—and I started to cry. The last few weeks have been heavy in my head: the AI projects, the immigrant work, and the inner turmoil. But last night, it was such a beautiful feeling to not be in my head—and still be there. Just using my gift to highlight others.
These kids were really, really good—and they deserve to be seen this way.
I love what I get to do in my day job. I truly love teaching. But last night, that book and that camera gave me just enough re-orientation to believe that maybe I could get to a place where working on these common-good projects in my off time—without freelancing—might be possible. And for that, I was so grateful.
