If you take individual human heart cells and place them together in a petri dish, they begin to spontaneously beat in synchronicity. Without any prompting or conscious thought, attunement.

Our impulse to connect lives not just in our conscious minds but in our very cells - the tiniest parts of us that make us who we are. Beneath our defenses and learned patterns of protection, there is a deep biological orientation towards being in rhythm with another. A built-in feature of a human body.

Being in rhythm with life requires contact with life, yet we are living in an increasingly contactless world.

Our screens tell us what to eat, what to wear, what to listen to, and what to say. Americans are spending dramatically less time in physical proximity with other people than they were twenty years ago. That trend started before COVID and has not reversed. One of the most heartbreaking things about the pandemic wasn’t just that so many died. It was the way so many died. Without contact.

We experience the whole world through our bodies yet, we are touch-starved. Not just physical touch, but touching real life. As opposed to the saran-wrapped version that we experience through screens. Social media offers a kind of voyeurism. AI chatbots offer us flattery. They don’t argue. They don’t need space. They don’t have preferences to consider. People do.

With any technology, and especially with AI, we need to ask ourselves not just “What are we gaining?” but “What are we losing?”

In an on-demand world where I can get groceries, breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, a date, a ride, a book, a movie, even toilet paper, without stepping foot outside of my house, the opportunity for human-to-human contact is less and less. The option for convenience and immediacy is more and more. The expectation that everything I consume must be tailor-made to my algorithmic preferences comes with a cost. We start expecting people to be as seamless as our online experience.

When everything is presented to us through the filter of what’s known and liked, what does that do to our ability to discover? To feel our body’s preferences - like where our boundaries are and how we like to be spoken to? Let alone how to communicate those things? What does it do to our ability to appreciate people who aren’t just like us? To be able to find common ground with those we disagree with?

Humans are messy and confusing. We need practice relating to each other. We need practice being in shared physical spaces. It’s the difference between watching people resolve a conflict on TV versus actually fumbling through it in real life. A contactless existence is no substitute for proximity to breathing bodies - socially, emotionally, biochemically, physiologically.

Good news: Opportunities for contact with life are everywhere. We just need to remember to engage.

I live near the oldest farmers market in San Francisco. The site has no green space and little pedestrian traffic. It’s surrounded by freeways and shares a parking lot with a granite and tile warehouse. I wouldn’t describe the site itself as inviting. But every Saturday, a whole bunch of people and produce stands show up. For a few hours, the space transforms into a bustling community commons. From flat and hollow to animated with life.

Every week, there’s a guy that sets up a folding chair right in the middle of the action. He’s got three or four canvas bags full of produce at his feet. Instead of going straight home, he plops his produce on the pavement, sits in his folding chair, and reads the newspaper. The regulars who recognize him give him a head nod, maybe a smile. An occasional “Hello’” or ‘“Can you believe this weather?” That’s it. A place to be and return to. A rhythm. Sitting in the simple hum of humans. A heart cell in a petri dish.

These are Tiny Intimacies. Intimacy as in, direct contact.

There is a kind of relational intimacy that occurs over years, decades of shared moments. And there is another flavor of intimacy that is easily overlooked. Intimacy through presence. Being with what’s right here, even for a moment. Showing up for people, not in the “‘til-death-do-us-part” kind of way, but in the “I’ll-hold-the-elevator-door-for-you” kind of way. Tiny expressions of our shared humanity, of being in sync with each other.

Depth is important, of course, but frequency is powerful, too. Especially as a counterbalance to the frequency of our contactless activities. It can look like asking the person who stumbles, “Are you alright?” It’s more than politeness. It’s a moment where we acknowledge each other as if to say “You’re not alone.”

This week’s micropractice

I couldn’t pick just one, so here are a few to choose from:

And/Or…

And/Or…

Anything that wakes up the human heart, even for a second, is worth repeating over and over again.

Where will you create a Tiny Intimacy this week? I’d love to hear

Leave a comment

Practicing with you,

Gina

They don’t last.

We use flowers to adorn our sacred rituals from weddings to funerals. When babies are born. When loved ones are lost. We wear them on our lapels and on our wrists and in our hair to mark special occasions.

They help us say “I’m sorry.”

And “I love you.”

And “I miss you.”

And “I haven’t forgotten you.”

A small bouquet in the hospital room softens sterile fluorescence.

We don’t bring the ones that last. We bring the ones that die.

At a very deep level we recognize that the artificial is no substitute for the real thing.

As I type this line, a prompt blinks at the bottom of my screen asking if I would like Gemini’s help to “improve this doc?” Or “make my argument more clear?” Or “add a checklist?”

I wonder how much gets lost in the name of optimization?

I’m a slow writer. Terribly inefficient. I write to learn what I think. Wrestling with words and ideas. They don’t arrive wrinkle-free. Neither do people. That is the point. And ultimately, the pleasure.

I am just getting home after a weekend getaway with family. A 75th birthday celebration for my stepdad. I’ve been kicking myself because I didn’t take a single picture. If I had one, I’d put it here. But since I don’t, I’ll try words.

A walk on the beach.

A paddle in the ocean.

Three kites flown.

Two-dozen red velvet cupcakes, baked and frosted.

Three sunburnt noses.

What’s a picture for, anyway?

We want the moment to last. To share it. To be able to enjoy it… later.

We forget what we already know. The picture never does it justice. The artificial is no substitute for the real thing. My stepdad says, life’s precariousness is what makes it precious. I am reminded of this whenever I smell a gardenia.

Like many of us, I am interested in flourishing. We put a great deal of focus on the big accomplishments that will help us “get there.” The bucket list. The big trip. The dream job. The perfect mate. Like big fancy bouquets waiting for us in the future. As someone who works with people every day on flourishing, I implore you not to overlook the field daisies that are right here. What Terry Tempest Williams describes as “The Holy Ordinary.”

In a time of artificial substitutes, short-cuts, and promises of plastic permanence, remember to savor the life that’s here, precisely while it’s here.

Practicing with you,

Gina

This newsletter is reader-supported. Everything I write is created without the use of AI. Your hearts, comments, follows, and shares are truly appreciated.

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-Bill McKibben

There are stories about human nature that serve authoritarianism well. Stories worth untangling on independence day in the US.

One dominant story tells us that we are separate. That individualism alone is the path to freedom. That humans exist at the top of a pyramid and everything below us exists to be managed, extracted, or consumed. That we alone have the power to either save this world or destroy it.

In this story, humans are inherently destructive, chaotic, in need of control. Safety comes from hierarchy. This is the colonizer myth. The myth of whiteness. The myth of “power over.”

This story tells us we’re not connected to all that lives. That we can somehow cut the cord and still be sustained. That our tiny, young species sits above creation rather than inside it. A narrative that reinforces a profound disconnection from land, from each other, and from our own bodies.

There is another story available to us.

The story of relationship.

Indigenous wisdom and spiritual traditions across cultures know these stories well. Thich Nhat Hanh called it, in a word, “Interbeing.” These stories reveal that we are not on top of everything but rather, that we belong to everything. We exist not in a pyramid but in a web, of ancestors, descendants, trees, algae.

It moves us from the myth of “I am in control of something” to the deeper wisdom of “I am part of something.”

Two days after Hurricane Katrina hit, a mall parking lot in Lafayette, Louisiana, was full of fishing boats. A Louisiana state senator expected maybe 25 boats. Between 350 and 400 showed up. Later dubbed the Cajun Navy, the makeshift flotilla is credited with rescuing more than 10,000 people from flooded homes and rooftops. All of this in a moment when institutional protection largely failed the people of New Orleans.

Rebecca Solnit writes, in A Paradise Built in Hell:

“What was true of the majority in Hurricane Katrina is true of most of us in nearly every disaster: we are courageous, we are generous, we are altruistic, we rescue each other, take care of each other, improvise the conditions of survival for and with each other…

Disasters are hell. But the way people respond, the experiences they have, the way they show up for each other can create a sort of paradise of generosity, solidarity, courage, immediacy, purposefulness.”

If we are successful at bridging divides, it will be because we were motivated by mutuality. Not rugged individualism.

Living into this story puts us on an entirely different path.

Today, I invite us to look for stories of life, supporting life.

The bee and the flower.
The driver heeding the stop sign.
The person holding the baby.
The watermelon, and the sun, soil, and hands that brought it to your plate.

It’s not just about respecting the earth and its inhabitants because it’s required for survival.

It’s about recognizing the truth of who we really are. Not separate from any being or thing.

May we honor the sovereignty of a singular life without forgetting that we belong to earth, to land, to history, and to those who have yet to be born.

Thanks for being here.
I’m writing a book about micropractices - the small, consistent acts that reshape how we live and lead. Subscribe below for early excerpts and release news along the way. Your hearts, comments, follows, and shares are truly appreciated.

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I grew up in redwood country.

Redwoods are some of the oldest, tallest, most resilient trees on the planet.

Redwood is softwood.
Softwoods are more porous than hardwoods.
Their bark acts like a sponge, collecting water from fog and rain.
Water is absorbed directly through the bark and transferred into the tree’s vascular system.
Their roots don’t grow deep, but wide.
They stay upright by intertwining their roots with their neighbors.

Sometimes I like to ask myself, “How soft can I get?”

It’s an oddly loaded question.

“If you’re soft they’ll walk all over you.”
“Boundaries, Gina. Boundaries!”

Whose voice is that, anyway?

Soft and strong are not mutually exclusive. Thank you, redwood trees.

My favorite definition of boundaries is:

“The distance at which I can love you and me, simultaneously.”
Shout out to embodiment teacher, Prentiss Hemphill, for this diamond.

We can be soft and set boundaries.
We can be strong and meet ourselves with tenderness.

There is a teaching that I love from Roshi Joan Halifax, Zen Buddhist teacher and longtime social justice warrior. I bring it to every room I work in.

Strong back, soft front.

Many of us walk around with a hard front, shielding a weak spine. We get brittle and defended. But if we strengthen our backs, we can risk having a front that’s soft and open.

A soft front allows us to be curious, have empathy, and ask for help.

A strong back allows us to be rooted in our deepest values, meet challenges without getting swept away by them, and discern who and what needs tending to.

I have seen leaders so afraid of being wrong that the words “I’m sorry” or even “I made a mistake” don’t exist in their vocabulary. Few things are more infuriating than watching leaders perform verbal gymnastics to avoid acknowledging when they mess up. We always think we’re doing a great job covering it up. We’re not. Ever. People can sniff out disingenuousness from a mile away. I love that about us.

I have also seen the power of the opposite. When a leader dares to take complete responsibility for their impact. It disarms the whole room. Like ice to water. It opens up the possibility for honest dialogue and repair.

Leading with an open heart does not have to look like letting people walk all over you.

It looks like admitting mistakes without blaming somebody else.

Being accountable to your word.

Having the courage to make principled decisions, including those that put people over profit.

This is strong back, soft front leadership.

Try this micropractice today

Take a moment to check in with yourself.
Place your hand on your heart.
“Hi, dear one. How are you?”
Intend to meet whatever’s there with deep tenderness.

Practicing with you,

Gina

Thanks for being here.
I’m writing a book about micropractices - the small, consistent acts that reshape how we live and lead. Subscribe below for early excerpts and release news along the way.

Subscribe now

For some shows, you can go through half a dozen rounds of auditions and callbacks to determine if you fit.

Can you do the dance steps, just so?

Do you have chemistry with the other person?

Do you look the part?

Are you believable?

And then, a very small group of people decide - yes or no.

In college, there was a casting bulletin board. A printed spreadsheet with the names of the parts and those who were chosen next to them. Just like you’ve probably seen in TV shows and movies. When we got word it was up, we’d rush to the board to see if we got picked.

Lots of visible emotions, of course. Disappointment, glee, relief, stoicism, anger.

It’s been almost twenty years since I was a working actor. The casting, though, doesn’t really stop. No matter what profession we’re in.

A couple days ago I was talking to someone who I love very much. And who loves me very much. I was telling him about the book I am writing. He started firing questions at me about my motivations for writing a book and then questioning the merits behind those motivations.

I know this person well enough to distinguish when he is genuinely curious and when he’s casting doubt with a question mark attached. In this case, it was the latter.

For whatever reason, he had not cast me in the role of book author. I’ve been annoyed and taking personally for the last 48 hours.

I wanted him to see me in a certain way. To validate the decisions I was making. And in that conversation, he didn’t.

We think roles belong to us. But they don’t, really.

As an actor, I was cast as many things. As a person, I have been cast as even more… The Artist. The Fun One. The Emotional Support System. The Thoughtful One.

There are also roles I have not been cast in that I really wanted: The Smart One. The Disciplined One. The Tough One. The Fearless One.

I’ve been cast by literal casting directors and many unofficial ones (I’m looking at you, family). And I’ve cast myself, plenty.

I’ve outgrown roles. Tried desperately to fit inside others.

In my acting career, I was told I was too young, too fat, and even too “ethnic-looking” to fit the part. And the people who saw me this way? They really believed that they were right. That their perception was the truth.

It is surprisingly easy to make this mistake.

Today, I sat down to prepare for a talk on Belonging.

I started by thinking about the qualities of belonging…

It’s different than fitting in. More like being held.

The body relaxes, exhales.

The experience of it, sacred. The longing for it, universal.

Who hasn’t wondered, “Do I belong as who I am? Or do I need to change something to fit here?”

Maybe belonging isn’t something that anyone can provide, or for that matter, take away.

Maybe it’s a quality to cultivate. A natural state of being.

Homeboy Industries in LA is the largest gang rehabilitation and re-entry program in the world. They’ve been around since 1988. Every year, they support some 10,000 former gang members and formerly incarcerated individuals with everything from tattoo removal, mental health services, and legal services to parenting classes and job placement.

Unconditional belonging. What a miraculous and, as Homeboy Industries has shown us, entirely achievable notion.

Belonging isn’t about in or out. It’s not even earned. It is something we can rest within and never be outside of.

The Buddhist tradition teaches us not only to question what does and doesn’t belong to us but the very idea that anything can.

One of my teachers says: “Nothing was ever ours to keep. Only ours to take care of for a while while we’re here.”

Bodies, minds, moods, feelings, breath…

I find this oddly comforting.

Check yourself.

Are you seeing someone as…

“The Problem”

“The Traffic”

“The Flake”

“The Rock”

Be willing to see yourself and others as much more than the roles you’ve cast them in.

Be willing to see yourself in your wholeness.
Be willing to extend that generosity to everyone you meet.

Practicing with you,
Gina

Right now - what belongs? And what is longing to belong?