The power of presence

Scrolling through social media, we touch the full symphony of human experience in a matter of seconds. Tragedy and triumph, heartbreak and celebration, the significant and the mundane—all pass by at lightning speed. Birth to death in the blink of an eye. The heart was built to hold the full range of emotions, but not all at once. The problem with having access to everything, all the time—and to every voice shouting into the void—is that we become desensitized. Nature seeks balance, and the only way to navigate this torrent of feeling without being pulled in every direction is to either numb ourselves or swing to extremes. Over time, that can lead to a kind of emotional short-circuiting—a disconnect from our true selves, and from one another. If we are not careful, that escape can quietly separate us from our heart, and from our humanity.

And yet, every now and then, we are reminded of the power of presence—the beauty of gathering in real time, in real space. This month gave us two such reminders. In the United States, the Fourth of July brought communities together under explosive, colorful skies to celebrate freedom, however imperfect and evolving that freedom may be. And here in Venice, the Festa del Redentore cast its own kind of glow, with its own unique fireworks show over boats crowding the Giudecca Canal and people spilling onto the fondamentas. Though born of hardship—Venice’s collective thanks for deliverance from a devastating plague centuries ago—the festival has endured through joy. The annual regatta, with teams relying on being in sync with each rower’s rhythm and resolve, is more than just pageantry; it is a living metaphor for how we move forward together, not alone.

These moments remind us that while life is often unpredictable and painful, it is also filled with grace, resilience, and connection. The world feels heavy right now, with widespread violence, displacement, and suffering. Life is hard enough as it is; we do not need to harden our hearts further. What if, instead, we chose to remember our shared humanity—not as an abstract idea, but as a daily commitment?

Art, in all its forms, gives us that chance. It slows us down. It requires presence. It does not look away, but neither does it shout. It invites. It reflects. It brings the human condition to light. In whatever medium, art reconnects us to ourselves and what is real: the tenderness of beauty, the warmth and ache of memory, the resilience of spirit. In a world that moves too fast, art gives us pause and says: feel this.

As we make room for both celebration and sorrow, let us look for opportunities to row together—to listen, to create, to show up for one another. Resist the temptation to numb or distract. Instead, pause. Look intently. Feel deeply. Let beauty, art, and community draw you back to your center. Even the smallest acts—sharing a meal, making something with your hands, sitting quietly beside someone—can be a quiet form of resistance. In a fractured world, staying human is an act of courage. And it is an act most meaningful when we do it together.