When I was a kid, I wanted to be an entomologist. I spent hours in the backyard on my hands and knees, patiently staring at the drama unfolding before me in the grass. (We didn't have a TV for a few years.)
Somewhere in my teenage years, I realized maybe I didn’t really want to be a bug scientist - I didn’t really know what I wanted to be, so that was the plan I ended up sticking with. I’ve never lost my love for insects, though. It continues to amaze me that not only is there always something larger and further out (planets and moons orbiting stars, stars clustered together into galaxies - they think a couple hundred billion or so; who knows), there’s also always something smaller. Just look closely at something around you, anything. There’s more detail than you probably realize, populated by a vast range of microscopic creatures, and then more stuff below & within that too small to see, even with an electron microscope.
The cable controlling the rear gears on my bicycle snapped a few days ago, and I don’t have the money to buy another one. I rigged the derailer in place with a zip-tie, and I’ve had to stop a few times on my daily commute to replace the chain on the gear. Crouched by the side of Glendale Blvd. with traffic whizzing by, I’ve noticed details almost no one else sees. It’s both beautiful and annoying.
Maybe it’s the observing that redeems lonely experiences for me. Being privy to a vantage point and a few details that no one else in the world will ever know. It’s ok to be alone in your backyard staring at bugs, or kicking it with the rich and famous at some party on a rooftop in LA, because only you are seeing what you’re seeing right now. “Each heart knows its own pain, and no one else can feel its joy,” said Solomon. It’s a bittersweet state, but it’s the one we’re in, and I’m learning to love it.