2024: Watershed Graduation Speech

May 24th, 2024

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Some 14 billion years ago our entire universe fit into a sphere the size of a marble. Some 14 billion years ago the matter of everything we know from the brains of my fellow seniors sitting before me to the rocky rings of Saturn, from the lithium in your phone's battery to the dust and hydrogen found in nebulas millions of light years away. 

All matter fit into something the size of a marble– and then, just like all things, change. The Big Bang. And suddenly, the universe expanded outward. Rapidly. Faster than any of us can truly conceptualize. 

This is the paradox of the human experience. We are growing apart from each other, not just because of whatever social qualms you might have, but also because the universe is quite literally expanding outward as we speak. Once at home in our tiny marble, we are now hurtling through space, trying desperately to grasp onto what was once close to us and today is so, so far away. 

We are the same matter, always, just configured in different ways. And it seems, like with all things, that as soon as you get used to that marble, as soon as you figure out the edges of its landscape, your life shifts, either in totality or just a smidge. In both cases, change is inevitable. And we find ourselves pulled from all that we once knew, left to make sense of our existence in community again. 

This is a truly terrifying and paralyzing thought. The fact that we are so unbelievably small and insignificant is enough to send anyone into existential crises, but, perhaps we can consider this in a different way: 

It is only because matter has arranged itself in infinite ways, and that it has the fundamental tendency to change– that we are here today. 

As an example, let me paint the picture of a singular moment for you: 

Imagine snow falling out of the sky. Not the kind of light and fluffy snow that evokes a magical feeling, but the heavy, almost sleet type of snow that makes you grateful that you have the warmth and comfort of a home or hot drink. Good. Now place yourself into a too short sleeping bag on a 2 inch thick sleeping pad that keeps deflating, beneath a 4 by 8 foot tarp– outside– in that snow. 

That was my 8th grade solo. An experience that seemingly was the result of a series of poor choices. You see: that situation would likely have been more easeful had I simply brought more food out onto solo, or checked the length of my sleeping bag, or fixed my pad, or, even more fundamentally, did not go on that particular trip to begin with. These are all choices I made which I deeply regretted while staring up at my neon orange tarp. But at some point during solo, I think I recalled that pondering the past was not a very uplifting way to spend my time, and instead, I turned over and started to journal. And, after the hours had passed, the snow stopped, I crawled out of my tarp, and breathed a sigh of relief. 

We can allow ourselves to get caught up in the past moments of our lives when our present moment is uncomfortable– but luckily, moments pass.

And, with the hindsight of several years, I can say that the moment I spent shivering in my sleeping bag has since branched into even more moments, and if you follow those splits far enough down you will find this moment, a moment that would not exist without all the moments that came before it. 

And isn’t this a pretty great moment to exist in? 

Matter is always moving, so we must learn to take snapshots and moments that give us insights to our own lives. The fact that we each live lifes with infinite moments behind our present existence and yet find connection in each other is a miracle. 

The fact that Amir and Rebecca had hot water for ramen and hot cocoa upon my return from solo was a miracle. 

That fact that I am standing here, sharing this moment with all of you, IS a miracle. 
This marble is tinted by more than infinite things. Because as we zoom out, as we start to consider the makings of moments, if we start to pull the moments apart from each other, a near impossible thing to do in and of itself, we start to realize that everything affects everything. 

And while this is a deeply overwhelming thought, it also grants a sense of hope because if we can make the most of as many of the tiny moments we have as possible, then the change begins to ripple and cascade. Which means that we must focus on the here and now. The infinitesimally small ways we treat ourselves, each other, the planet. 

And truthfully, if we wish to succeed in saving all this, in mending this tattered web. We must start with the tiny fractures regardless.

We must first work to heal: 

This moment. 

This moment. 

Graduating class of 2024, I am so proud to see all the ways we’ve learned to live all in and I’m even more excited to see the many ways we learn to do this better in the future. I hope you embrace all the highest of highs and lowest of lows and I hope they help you grow. Help you evolve and change. I believe that each of you will go forth with a voracity to live fully, to live with your feet planted in the present but with a hopeful glance towards the future. You’ve got to let yourself fall– because who knows what’s yet to come. 

And to all the matter of this moment. To all the matter that spans to the far edges of our universe. To all the matter that’s configured itself in infinite ways in the past so that we can arrive here now. 

Thank you. 

Thank you for everything.