The Experience

When I was 16, living in Brooklyn with my parents, one summer night I drove to Sheepshead Bay and sat on the rocks along the beach. Reflections from the moon danced on the water, the ocean breathed in the surf and breathed out a roar as it crashed on the shore. The sounds, the motion, the light and darkness felt eerie, a bit frightening as I was infinitesimal before the infinite . I wondered why the ocean, expressing itself and affecting me more than most people I knew, was not considered as alive as are plants and animals. What did it mean to be alive? The “alive” classification made little sense. Other classifications and definitions also seemed senseless. What defined me and not me.

Now, many years later, most classifications, descriptions and thoughts seem like empty boxes; helpful for organizing and communicating, but empty of the experiences they try to contain.