Vol. 5, Issue 9: Joy and Pain
The Highs Aren't High If The Lows Aren't Low
The title of this is a little RIP to Rob Base, who passed away from cancer a couple of weeks ago.
If you’re my age or thereabouts, Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock (RIP also) were seminal. The music of my junior high school experience - every school dance*, every bar mitzvah, every party, “It Takes Two” was the centerpiece of the dance floor.
*When I was in the 7th grade, I was at a school dance. I worked up an immense amount of courage to walk up to a girl and ask her to dance with me. Literally all the courage that I had in me at the time. Her “no” was so swift that I imagine it’s what it feels like to get an arm sliced off with a sword - it’s so shocking and fast that you don’t feel the pain until a few beats go by and you realize you have no arm. Anyway, thanks for her for helping shape me into who I am today I guess?
But speaking of bar mitzvahs, this past Sunday, my son became one*. It was an immensely joyful experience for me - watching my son do the same thing that I had done before him, that my dad did before me and so on. I say this all the time, paraphrasing Mel Brooks here, I’m not very religious, but I’m very Jewish. And that means something to me. We're part of something bigger than us, a long line of people who have plugged into something larger. Not something supernatural or divine necessarily, but definitely something earthly and real.
*As I said multiple times that day, thank god I’m out of children because I cannot go through the process of planning another one of these events
The DJ and MC were absolutely amazing, the venue did an incredible job hosting us, the food was fantastic. People were dancing, playing games and having fun. And as I do at all of these events, I took a moment to step back and look at the event itself. Just to take it in. We planned this. We created this. I looked out over the room and I saw all of the people I love most in this one room.
Except one.
Two weeks earlier, my best friend Mike passed away unexpectedly. He was supposed to be there sitting next to his wife. His kids were supposed to be running around with the other kids. He was supposed to be saying something inappropriate at the service and laughing about it. He was supposed to be feeling the emotion we all felt during the speeches.
But instead, there was just an empty space where he was supposed to be.
In the couple of weeks leading up to the event, I kept asking myself the same question: how do you throw a party like this when your heart is broken? Wondering how we were going to celebrate, dance, enjoy ourselves when this enormous part of me was completely devastated.
Life is a funny thing though, isn’t it?
I was expecting to feel joy, of course. What I wasn’t expecting was just how much joy I felt in the midst of all the sadness.
I watched my son lead the service with poise and calm. And then I watched him revel in how proud he was in himself* at the party afterward. How he partied hard with his friends - dancing, jumping, scream singing. How he took a bunch of silly pictures at the photo booth. How he ate and laughed and said hi to all of the adults so calmly and gracefully. Watching your children grow is truly one of the most gratifying things imaginable.
*This is a thing I tell my kids all the time. I’m proud of you no matter what. It’s way more important to me that you’re proud of yourself.
This is the part where it gets difficult.
Because it felt like somehow my happiness was a betrayal of my sorrow. That every time I jumped up and down to some silly song the DJ played, that jump was missing something. That every time I smiled at something or someone, that Mike wasn’t there to smile too. That every time I laughed, part of me was asking how laughter was even possible. And that’s when I remembered Stephen Colbert*
*I am going to take a moment to say someone smart is going to hire this man to do something else great, and CBS and Skydance can literally fuck all the way off
I know I spoke about this at some point, but Stephen Colbert talks about how if you consider life to be a blessing, and it is, then you have to embrace all parts of that blessing - the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. You’ve got to learn to lean in and love the thing you didn’t want to happen because that thing is and becomes a part of you. The big realization here isn’t that grief disappears; it’s that grief becomes a part of you. The grief expands your capacity. The same heart handles both.
Grief isn’t linear. It’s not a staircase or a flat road in Kansas. It’s not a checklist and it’s not something you finish. It’s a process My therapist describes it like the ocean - there’s high tide and low tide. There’s big waves and small waves. They roll in and out. And you can’t control grief anymore than you can control the ocean. You’ve just got to feel it. And for me, there’s something empowering in that.
The hole that Mike left in that room was real. But so was the joy. And the biggest revelation is that they didn’t cancel each other out. They existed side by side, together. Watching my son do his thing was one of the great moments of my life, losing Mike was one of the saddest. They both exist within me.
As it turns out, the human heart is big enough to break and feel joy at the same time.
RIP, Mike.
I’m happy to be back.
It’s been an incredibly busy time in my life, but I have a bunch of these half-written - both for Geoff Wolinetz Is Too Late and The History of It All, so we’re going to get cracking on all of those over the next few weeks.
Leadership In Season 2 is live here and it’s absolutely fantastic if I do say so myself. Please listen and follow and share. I would be greatly obliged.
Finally, I’m back in NYC for my annual summer residency, so please reach out if you’d like to catch up. I’d love to see you.