THIS, HERE, NOW: THIS IS IT

“Hey bud. My mom just passed away.”

I was a few martinis deep at a dive bar in Chelsea with one of my favorite humans, Thomas, when one of my other favorite humans texted me about his mom.

Thomas looked at me, held my hand, and told me to make a list of all the things my friend needs to do before flying to Colombia to arrange for the farewell of his mother. I cried. I knew how important my friend’s mom was to him, and how important my friend is to me. Thomas hugged me, held my shoulders and said,

“This is it, brother. This is it,” his blue eyes piercing my soul.

I always think about what he meant by that. I never asked him because sometimes the ambiguity of something you’ve assigned as meaningful is what allows it to be meaningful. I took a train up to East Harlem, list in hand.

A few years ago, I surprised my then partner with tickets to see Sara Bareilles live at Madison Square Garden. I had been playing her music in our apartment all week without ever mentioning the show to my partner. It was fun watching her respond to certain songs, me secretly noting and hoping Sara would play them a few days later. She played all the songs.

We left the concert with the kind of high only live music is capable of offering. It was a cool, autumn night; my favorite kind. We bought a bag of warm mixed nuts on the street. I brought airpods, one in her ear, one in mine. I turned on our favorite songs, and we just walked. Hand in hand. Very few things make the heart smile more than holding hands. Such a simple act, so elegant and full of possibilities, a place where the new and familiar flirt with each other, one finger at a time. I looked up to the Empire State building a few blocks over, looked at her, and screamed with excitement and bliss, “this is it!”

Last week, I sat down at a crowded table with my Hawaii family. It was hectic, dynamic, many massive personalities. I looked at the faces of everyone at the table. This was the first time we had ever been all together in 16 years of close friendship.

Sometimes, I play this game in my mind. I “mute” all the noise that circles me. I just look at faces, smiles, eyes, food, the sky, buildings, at the hand holding mine or the tear falling. I let the world go silent for a moment.

And in that silence, I always hear three words.

This. Is. It.

Whether it is being there for a friend as he grieves his mother’s going home, a warm hand in yours on a cool walk down Broadway, or a reunion for the first time on a Wednesday in Waimea.

May you find your silence.

Your music.

Your “this.”