A Worthy Endeavor
Shalinee in Sevilla
A few weeks ago, I saw a friend of mine who has been road tripping around the US. Before he started this adventure, I gave him a journal. I expected him to record and reflect on his experiences—that’s what I would’ve done, in fact, it’s what I have done, in my own adventures. But my friend did something with the journal that never would have occurred to me to do. Instead of writing in it himself, he made it a place for others. When he meets someone on his travels, he has them write where they are, a little about themselves, and their plans for the future.
When I got to look through this little journal, I was in awe of what I saw there. I was struck by the openness I saw in those pages—people were so honest. One person wrote about hoping to find a partner in the near future. Another wrote about hoping to find true community. Some simply wrote who they were—“I’m an engineer” one entry said. Some took up a whole page, others just a couple lines. They wrote in different colored pens, in giant capital letters, in messy cursive, in neat, schoolgirl-like print. Every entry, a tiny snapshot into a fully-realized, complicated human being, with hopes and anxieties and daily life. I was overwhelmed by the humanity I held in my hands.
Writers are meant to observe, or so I have always thought. To me, a journal is a place to write down what I see, so I can render the world in vivid, authentic detail. But though it now seems obvious, until I looked through this journal, I never considered the degree to which a writer always centers herself. She acts as a filter between the world and the page. By inviting others to write in his journal, my friend had included dozens of filters instead of just his own. And as a result, there was an authenticity to those entries that a writer could never have captured through their own observation alone.
After all, we can only ever know our own mind. We worry about who likes us, who hates us, who judges us. We think about things we have done or should have done. We make plans for ourselves. We dream of our future. We contradict ourselves. And as we go through this strange thing called life, it is easy to forget that every single person around us contains as many multitudes as we do. But once in a while, something happens. For me, seeing all these people’s thoughts frozen in time was one of those things. As I sat at my table, running my hands over the handwriting of people I would never meet, I felt so deeply the vastness of my fellow humans. It seemed to stretch out before me.
Since coming back from Spain, centering myself as we are all apt to do, I have often thought that no one who wasn’t there with me would ever be able to understand the enormity of the experience I had there. There would always be this distance. I had the same thought when my friend was telling me stories about his travels—no matter how many anecdotes he shares, I will never know. That same hint of melancholy drifts over me when my dad recounts a story from some new corner of his childhood that I wasn’t even aware of, or when I think of all my mother’s stories I will never hear.
This inherent unknowability of other humans has often felt daunting to me. Yet somehow, I realized I had been looking at things all wrong. Seeing people be so unabashedly human in this journal reminded me that our infinite complexity—that very thing which makes us never fully knowable—is what makes meeting other humans so fun. From your oldest friends to the middle-aged woman sitting next to you on the airplane, from your parents and siblings to the cashier at Trader Joe’s, even the briefest moment of connection with another human is another piece in a never-ending puzzle. And what’s more exciting than that buzzy feeling you get when you meet a stranger and realize you have something totally random in common?
I used to tell myself this—that meeting another human is always a worthy endeavor–when I needed a mindset for first dates. I’ve told my friends the same thing too, to encourage them to go to a social event. At some point, it was a core belief of mine. And yet somewhere in the last year, I lost sight of that.
The day after I had this moment of clarity flipping through that mighty little notebook, I went to a dinner with strangers. After months of targeted instagram ads, I succumbed. I signed up through an app to attend a meal with similarly aged people from around the area. At dinner, I got to know other 20-somethings trying to figure out their young lives in LA, . Afterwards, most of us went together to a bar, where all the other people who had attended a dinner that night could also meet up, and I became aware of how quickly a stranger could start to feel like a friend. It was the first time in over a year and a half where I was truly among only strangers. But having been reminded of the joy of meeting new people, instead of anxiety, I felt only excitement. I approached every interaction I had with curiosity. I talked to a lawyer whose birthday was coming up next week, and a business owner who had recently moved from the UK to expand his company. I talked to people about the languages we speak, and how to raise bilingual children. Some of the people I met that night, I will never see again. Others, I invited to a party I had last night. Regardless, even the awkward interactions were amusing or enlightening in some way.
In the weeks since, I have thought often about that journal, and my friend who created it, the ease with which he approaches strangers, and the way that has inspired me. When I have felt shy, or antisocial, I have reminded myself not to pass up opportunities for connection. I have already had so many wonderful experiences as a result. And over and over, I have been reminded how good it feels when you look someone in the eyes, ask them a question, and listen to their answer.
Here’s to a year full of connection, with strangers and friends alike. Thank you for reading.
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Before I leave you, here’s a quick update on my new years resolutions! I have been working out more, though not quite 4x/week, yet. I decided to wait a bit to start rock climbing again. I read some of one of Grace Paley’s short story collections, and currently I’m reading ‘Off Keck Road’ by Mona Simpson. I’ve been journaling more, and I keep having a ton of ideas for things to write about in this newsletter, which I am so excited about. I went to brunch with friends today in WeHo and it was lovely. Afterwards, I walked around Melrose Ave. I’ve been incredibly social in the last few weeks, in an effort to embody my rediscovered mindset of meeting people. Next month, I need to go to a museum! I can’t wait to tell you all more about my adventures.
Also, I would so love to hear from you! How are your resolutions going? Have you talked to any strangers recently? You may have noticed a common thread in my letters—they are often largely inspired by someone I know. I would love to know if my thoughts spark anything in you. Let’s all strive to inspire each other more.
Happy February! Talk to you in a month :)
-Shalinee