2025-02-25 08:00:00
I get this question a lot, so here’s my honest answer.
I was living in Singapore, feeling culturally adventurous, wanting to live everywhere, meet everyone, and get to know the whole world. But then I had a baby.
At first I thought we’d raise him in Singapore, fluent in all the cultures of Asia. But after a few months, I realized how important it was to me that he have a real connection with nature. Feet in the river, hands in the mud, climbing trees, running in fields, at home in the forest. Great foundation for the soul. Maybe even a competitive advantage in a world where everyone else is dependent on devices.
Also, Singapore was a super-social place for me, where I knew too many people, and I wanted to give my boy my full attention without distraction — to live where I didn’t know anyone. So the plan was to raise him in nature for the first six years, then move somewhere more culturally expansive for the next six.
New Zealand is a nature paradise, but I also loved the safety of its location in times of global trouble. They make you a citizen if you live here for six years. So, perfect match for our situation. Raise a baby in nature, then leave with an amazing passport, and the right to return forever.
It took nine months of paperwork to become a legal resident, but the government is friendly and helpful. It’s really sweet to live in a country where the government agencies are really small, sensible, and personable. I like the culture here better than I expected.
His upbringing went as planned. Full nature boy. Not into screens or phones at all. He’s always outside, spends his days in forests and the rocky coast, and loves building physical things like tools and shelters for his adventures.
After getting New Zealand citizenship, we moved to Europe, but then Covid hit. So in a way it was just as predicted: New Zealand was a great location in times of global trouble - one of the only Covid-free places on earth - and only citizens were allowed in, so our passports felt like the golden ticket, and we moved back. While his cousins across the world were locked down in isolation, staring at screens, he was playing with friends.
His mom loves her job in the government here, so no more moving. He’s in high school now, and he’s still not into screens. He’s mentally healthy and wise, I think partially due to being raised outside in nature.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but moving to New Zealand was a good choice.
2025-02-24 08:00:00
(I haven’t done this yet, but plan to. I listened to that Odysssey audiobook in two days of walking around Port Meadow, Oxford, and have been yearning to listen again.)
2025-02-23 08:00:00
Imagine you’re a ghost.
You drift through the world but nobody sees you.
You’re disconnected.
Then one day, after years of being invisible, someone sees you!
You get to know each other, and become friends.
Through that one connection, your life begins.
I have few memories of childhood, maybe because it felt like nobody saw me.
My life began at age 12 when I met my first best friend.
We talked hours a day for years, sharing all of our thoughts — comparing experiences and emotions.
The seed of who I am might have been there before.
But the interaction with a friend made it sprout.
That’s when this tree began.
Conception versus birth.
If a tree falls and no one hears it, did it make a sound?
When your thoughts are acknowledged and reflected back through another, it’s like reverb.
It’s validation.
It’s confusing to be mis-acknowledged.
A tree falls and the reverb comes back as a duck quack.
Someone seems to hear you, but always misunderstands.
It screws with your identity.
(Am I actually a duck?)
I recently knew someone that would listen but never respond.
Thoughts went in but never came out.
I loved her but was lonely around her.
I’m so thankful for dear friends that play catch with me — tossing thoughts back and forth.
Mutual reverb, growing our sprouts, demonstrably seen and connected.
2025-02-22 08:00:00
I was dating for the first time, after a six year long relationship.
Someone asked, “Why did your last relationship fail?”
I said, “It didn’t.”
“OK then why didn’t it work out?”
I said, “It did!”
We’re not still together, but it was great from beginning to end.
It started with an email. “Hi. My name is Anna. A happy girl in Sweden. You sound really interesting. Please tell me more about yourself.”
I thought it was probably spam, but before deleting it, just in case, I replied “Who are you and why do you think I’m interesting?”
She replied. I replied. She replied with more. I replied with more. Once a day, at the end of the day, a single email. Because we were strangers on the other side of the world, we got more and more honest, like a confession booth, saying the things we wouldn’t tell anyone else.
After three months of emailing, we switched to real-time chat. After six months, for the first time, she sent me her photo. She was hot! I flew to Sweden and it was on.
After two years of visiting each other, she moved to America to be with me. A year later, we got secretly married, only for immigration. She moved to Los Angeles for film school, so I moved with her.
We got along so well, just happy to be together. In six years, we had only one fight, for about ten minutes, about whose turn it was to clean the bathroom. That was it. Six years of sweet romantic harmony.
But our interests were pulling us in different directions. I wanted to spend more time working in Portland. She wanted to spend more time with her friends in LA that were single and having adventurous flings — an experience she’d never had.
After a movie on the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica, we sat on a bench having a lemonade, talking about this, then one of us said it first.
“Do you want to break up?”
“Yeah. Do you?”
“Yeah. You’re not upset?”
“Not at all. Are you hurt?”
“No. Wow. We just broke up.”
“Yeah. End of an era. So… now what?”
Best breakup ever. We walked home together, drinking our lemonades, sharing our plans for what we wanted to do next.
We went to sleep in the same bed that night, but at 4am I woke up excited, packed my car, kissed her goodbye, and drove sixteen hours to Portland. I never saw her again. We only talked for a few minutes, later that year, to file the divorce stuff. Life moves on.
Someone asked, “Why did your last relationship fail?”
But it didn’t. It was a great relationship, and was just what we needed. I remember it fondly.
A relationship, like a movie or book, doesn’t fail when it comes to an end.
2025-02-20 08:00:00
Sofia was my first big love. We met at 21, when we were both in the circus. She opened me up, and taught me how to be honest. I was absolutely certain that I was going to spend the rest of my life with her.
After six years together, she went to Honduras and, within a week, fell in love. She dumped me by email, saying she had never loved me. They got married and had a baby. We remain friends.
Anna lived in Sweden when I lived in New York. She stayed with me three times in a row, for months at a time, until the border-visa guy at the airport told her, “I’m letting you in one last time, but I’m putting a note on your record that you’re not allowed in again without a resident visa.”
We were in love and had been together for two years, but didn’t want to get married. We tried to get her a work visa, but it was taking too long. So we grudgingly found a marriage clerk, signed the papers, and didn’t tell anyone, not even our best friends or parents. We never intended to stay together forever.
After six happy years, when we amicably broke up, I finally told my friends, “Anna and I broke up, and by the way, we were married.” I loved how their impulse to say “congratulations” and “I’m sorry” cancelled each other out, for a wonderful lack of drama, like my favorite fable.
Della and I had only been dating for a few months in New York City, when I suggested we take a trip to California. She said, “My parents would disown me. I can’t travel with a man unless we’re married.”
I was against it, but I was at a time in my life when I was trying to do the opposite of my instincts. So I asked her parents for her hand in marriage, and we had a wedding attended mostly by her parents’ friends. The next day, she was free to travel.
It was instantly clear we had made a huge mistake, and we broke up after a year. But then she found out she was pregnant, so we got back together for two really difficult years, then broke up for good. She’s the mother of my boy, and lives a few minutes away.
We used our marriage certificate to get residency and citizenship in India, Singapore, New Zealand, Belgium, Portugal, and UK.
I feel like I’ve never been married, because I’ve never seriously committed to spend the rest of my life with someone. The two marriage certificates were really just travel documents, signed only for the authorities that required them.
I’m so thankful I didn’t stay with my first big love. I’ve had such wonderful relationships since then, beyond the ones named here.
Some of us want deep roots and stability, to live in the same place, with the same person, for life. I prefer variety, though I like the joke that goes: “I’ve slept with hundreds of women, and all of them were my wife.” That sounds nice.
In all of my worldly adventures, a real marriage is one experience I’ve never had.
2024-12-11 08:00:00
This is a real question. I don’t know the answer and I’m curious.
I lived in New York City for ten years and Los Angeles for seven years, and there are a lot of Jewish people in those two cities, so it could be coincidence.
But I honestly didn’t realize it until one day I was thinking about the difference between shallow versus deep friendships, and made a list of my closest friends. After I looked at the short list, smiling and appreciating, I looked again. Wow. All of them are Jewish. Is it coincidence, or a cultural attraction?
I meet a lot of people and like most of them, but it’s rare I feel that extra-extra click with someone. In Buenos Aires this year, I met with a musician named Alejandro Staro, and we instantly felt like old friends. Then two hours into the conversation, he said something about his Jewish culture, and I was shocked. I had no idea. If that was part of the reason I felt an instant click with him, how could that be?
When I got home to New Zealand, I called one of my best non-Jewish friends, to ask her about this. She’s from Iran, Bahá’í faith, and spent twenty years fighting terrorism on the front-lines of Afghanistan, Somalia, and Kenya, before taking a nice peaceful post in 2019, in Kyiv Ukraine. Oops. (Yes she’s a magnet for disaster, and has also been attacked by a dolphin and silverback gorilla.) But anyway. She’s also one of those rare people that I super-clicked with the minute we met, years ago. So I explained the situation and asked her why I’m so drawn to Jewish people.
She said, “Maybe that’s why you and I clicked so well.”
I said, “Ha. Wait. What? No. You’re Bahá’í.”
She said, “Yeah but my mom’s mom is Jewish, so it was always part of my family’s culture.”
Again! I had no idea, so it was another blind taste test.
So if this is a cultural attraction, then what is that really? My friends are vastly different, some religious, some not at all, from different countries and backgrounds, so any cultural similarity must be subtle.
Could the Talmudic tradition of questioning pass down through non-religious families? Is it a shared love of discussion?
I could relate to the worldview presented in “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Understanding Judaism” — a surprisingly great book, written by a rabbi. My friend Maya inducted me as an honorary “member of the tribe”.
Am I recognizing a shared worldview in strangers, even though they seem to have nothing in common? Or is it something else entirely? I don’t know, so I’m asking the world for ideas. Please leave a reply here if you have any thoughts.
