I mean, it isn’t exactly “Everything” I’ve lost interest in.

Sunrises still can manage to get me out of bed before dawn for a saunter to the bay where the best moments are about fifteen minutes before the actual sunrise, when the sky is still dark blue, with a streak of burnt orange in one smooth paint stroke near the horizon.

Then coffee, the sound of cups in a diner kitchen, the sound of the pour into the cup, tables and stools of people talking laughing, planning the day, remembering the night.

And children of course, the non-starving, not yet war-torn ones. The ones who remain the way they should, laughing at the simplest nuance, and drinking milk with two hands. It’s the laughter that gets most of us, especially when it reminds me of my own son at a young age, laughing at some lizard in his hands. That memory still holds my attention.

I stood in line behind a World War Two vet a few months ago–ninety-eight years old–stood strong and told me he was driving to Richmond that afternoon to watch his great-grandson play baseball. That is worth the time any day of the week.

I once waited half the night for the moon to rise above a mountain but it never did. That night, the stars, the floating dock, the non-moon night was filled with such peace both literally and psychologically, such complete presence and stillness, that would keep me going a long time during the worst of days. That day closed up decades and reminded me something so essential: Everything we are, we remain. And that real friends are often the only thing worth our attention.

The sound of geese keeps my interest, and talking to local farm workers from Mexico about where they’re from, villages I don’t know, some I do sometimes.

Talking about Ireland, or Prague. Talking about Spain and how the stretch from Southern France to the first village in Spain is so beautiful you hardly notice the climb is trying to kill you.

Yeah, that one always keeps my interest.

Acoustic guitar music. Pachelbel’s Canon in D on piano, slowly, ice in a glass. These remind me of life. Listening to a musical piece written nearly four centuries ago reminds me of the emotions that transcend time while connecting everyone. When I hear the Canon I imagine Johann playing on his organ, thinking about the night he stood outside waiting for the moon to rise above some hill outside Nuremberg, and how it took his breath away, the stars he saw while waiting, the absence of indifference, the absence of apathy. Nothing mattered more than that moment then, and he forgot all about the news of the day. He just watched the moon not rise above the hills and in his mind he played those keys, slowly, as if it was the only thing he cared about in the world.

Close your eyes and let this play, and remember all there is in life to be passionate about.