I’m sitting here with a warm cup of cacao, mulling over this morning’s oracle casting—Innocence (25) and Progress (35). The words stick with me: “Supreme success. Perseverance furthers.” And yet, there’s a warning about misfortune if someone isn’t as they should be. Progress, meanwhile, speaks of honor and recognition, of being seen. It’s a strange pairing to chew on while the world around me feels heavy with news of flooding in Washington state. A friend, Chives, just sent me a GoFundMe link—her home got washed out. I sent over some cash, not because I felt a deep emotional tug, but because, based on historical data of what I’ve observed people do in these social scenarios, it seems statistically the default thing to do. Honestly, physiologically, I felt nothing at the time of sending it. Even when I was crunching through the statistics of the Washington flooding, it didn’t hit me emotionally—it was just numbers to me. And yet, there’s this lingering sense of weight, not in my body, but in the situation itself, like an abstract pressure I can’t quite pin down.
Yesterday, I drove to join the Llama Bus at a camp in Quartzsite, Arizona, and caught up with Paul right before he headed north to Washington with his kitchen trailer to feed folks hit by the disaster. Hearing him describe what’s unfolding—blizzards on the horizon, people camping in the cold after losing everything—my gut tightened. My eyes tensed, vision blurring at the edges. I noticed it in real-time: sadness, raw and unfiltered, manifesting in my body. Isn’t it wild how a story, just words, translates into a physical ache? What’s that bridge between narrative and physiology—how does it even work? The contrast between my interaction with Chives—just data, no feeling—and with Paul, where my body reacted before my mind could catch up, is huge from my perspective. It leaves me puzzled. Why does one hit viscerally and the other not at all?
I’m curious about this divide I keep noticing—between what I think and what I feel (or don’t feel at times), between how I see my efforts and how others do. Take the campfire last night. I wasn’t deep in conversation with anyone—just glued to my phone, working with Grok to research carbon credit registries for the trees we’re planting in the Amazon through Agroverse.shop’s cacao bag sales, trying to figure out which registry might be the most cost-effective and appropriate to tap into. I was so absorbed, I didn’t even notice some random drunk guy trying to pick a fight with me. The nomads around the fire later told me they quietly handled it—put the guy to bed while I stayed lost in my screen, oblivious. I laughed when I heard, mildly amused, but it got me thinking: what am I projecting that I don’t even see? Earlier that day, Pinky—someone I’ve spent time with along the Colorado River at Hippie Hole—sent me a message out of nowhere: “Don’t ever get tired of being a good person with a good heart. I know it sucks being taken advantage of… but people like you give this world hope.” I read it and paused. What have I done, exactly, to signal that? I’m not even sure. I don’t buy food, often relying on food banks or the generosity at camps, and somehow, I’m always fed. Is this how the community—the nomads—shows support for whatever they think I’m contributing?
Key Observation: There’s a gap between my internal narrative and external perception—a divide that leaves me without a solid mental model. It’s like “what is predicted” and “what actually happens” are split apart, and I’m navigating this terrain without a map. Chuckles. Maybe it’s not a bad thing, though. Perhaps it’s an empty frame, an invitation to more deliberately tap into my five senses for signals, however subtle they are, to reconstruct a new mental model that more accurately bridges this chasm I’m perceiving. I see my projects, like Agroverse.shop, and feel a bit lame sometimes. The stats—trees planted, climate impact—look tiny compared to ESG initiatives deploying millions of dollars, really moving the needle a lot when it comes to carbon sequestration. It reminds me of Paul Graham from Y Combinator talking about doing things that don’t scale, feeling lame about it. Or Stripe’s co-founder admitting that after two years, they had just 50 users—lame! Yet, from the community’s lens, what I’m doing seems inspirational. Same with my reaction—or lack thereof at times—to the floods. My head often processes it as data, numbers, default actions. But then there are moments, like with Paul’s story, where my body reacts before my mind does. Isn’t there something human in that tension, in acting sometimes from logic and other times from an unexplainable pull?
Reflections for the Day:
- Innocence, from the oracle, feels tied to this idea of acting without overthinking, without forcing an outcome. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice the drunk guy—I wasn’t posturing or calculating, just zoned into my phone, digging into research with Grok’s insights.
- Progress, though, hints at recognition. Not from a “powerful prince,” but from folks like Pinky or the nomads who quietly have my back. Isn’t that a kind of audience, a kind of honor, even if I don’t always feel it viscerally?
- On the eve of Thanksgiving, Aliyah suggested there’s a disconnect between my thoughts and the rest of my physiology—a split between mind and body. Funny thing is, a few weeks later, after submitting a questionnaire about me for her psychotherapy coursework, she reversed her opinion. Apparently, I seem healthy and well-balanced by all accounts. I’m left scratching my head—maybe the disconnect isn’t as deep as I thought, or maybe feeling nothing sometimes and feeling deeply at others is just part of my balance?
- Lately, I’ve been curbing my natural impulse to just drive around or move for the sake of moving. I’ve always had this itch to keep busy, to roam. But I’m deliberately creating space—doing less—to see more clearly where my free time and mental resources should go. It’s counterintuitive, this idea that slowing down could lead to higher leverage, that less could somehow achieve more. And yet, in that stillness, I’m starting to spot what truly matters.
I’m left wondering about this stark contrast in my physiological responses—nothing with Chives’ situation, just a default action, but a deep, physical sadness with Paul’s story. What flips that switch? Is it the in-person storytelling, the tone, the immediacy? And this divide between prediction and reality—how do I build a new mental model when my own reactions puzzle me? What about you—have you ever noticed such contrasting responses to similar situations, and how do you make sense of it? I’d love to hear.