I spent time in New York City last week. Meetings, reconnecting with friends, gallery hopping, networking. It was a chance to refill my creative cup and to imagine new possibilities. After all, our new book has been out for two months now. My head is filled with all sorts of “what’s next” scenarios.

Maybe it’s the small town Wisconsin boy in me, but I am completely enamored with the New York subway system. More than 600 miles of track moving 3.2 million people a day. All day. Every day. Buskers, tourists, fancy people, decidedly unfancy folks. Sometimes I ride it just to watch the people. At every station the doors open, a new cast climbs aboard and another scene unfolds. I imagine the stories they all might tell if we had the time to talk. 

A Hasidic Jewish man stood next to me on the subway, reading his holy book from right to left, its pages worn and its cover reinforced with duct tape. He was well-balanced, both hands on the book at all times, leaning into the starts and stops of the train.

A Hispanic woman boarded at the next station, selling gum and candy as she made her way through the cars. A brightly colored cloth swaddled a young girl to her back, eating Ritz crackers and leaving the crumbs in her mother’s hair.

A family studied their map and debated which station to stop at. A woman leaned in and helped resolve the question.

One stranger tapped another on the arm and said, “Dude, your backpack is open.” “Thanks, bro,” came the reply.

A man napping with dirt under his fingernails. A woman in hijab. Someone sifting through a garbage can on the busy platform.

Walking up out of the station and into daylight again, I stopped at a street cart to buy a kebab from a Palestinian man. I walked through Times Square and through a rally to support Ukraine. Leaving a photo gallery with a friend that night, a passenger leaned out of his car and yelled to Derek, “Hey, nice hat!” I mean, no offense to Derek…it was a fine hat…but for it to stand out in that sea of people was remarkable to me.

Masses of humans walking down the sidewalks, checking phones, brushing shoulders, doing the dance that lets crowds move in two directions at the same time, rarely colliding.

The next morning I wandered through Chinatown and stumbled upon a Chinese New Year parade. I watched the dragon floats wind down the street as I listened to the people by my side speaking French.

Our world is small. And beautiful. And messy. Opulent wealth lives side by side with desperate poverty. Every headline in the news was reflected in the faces I passed on the streets.

I picked up last minute tickets to a show on my final night in the city. I saw Moulin Rouge with Boy George on the stage. He killed it and he looked like he was having fun. It was 18 blocks from the theater to the hotel where I stayed. On the walk back, I passed 17 people sleeping on the street. Laying out cardboard to soften the damp, hard concrete. Tucked into doorways. Covered in layers of blankets. 

Our world is hard. Frayed around the edges. Some days, unraveling at the seams. But somehow, it keeps moving. And if you look closely enough, even in the midst of the din and dinge of midtown Manhattan, there is a glimmer of humanity. A softness. A connection between strangers that is possible, in spite of it all.

What if the wonder of the world is not that we fracture from time to time, but that for the most part, we do ok.