The other day I read that at some point in every day, I will breathe in a molecule from air expelled by Oliver Cromwell, who lived and expelled air from 1599 to 1658. I can’t get that out of my head: the interconnectedness of it all. It’s similar to seeing the light reflected from a butterfly’s wing in Fort Tryon Park near where I live and knowing that 8 minutes ago that very same light was actually inside the sun, where each photon of it is calculated to have spent something like ten thousand years wildly jostling about on its way to the solar surface. I can’t understand it, and yet I know that it is the really real and that what I am living is the not really real. And I think of the astronaut Edgar Mitchell , watching rapid fire earth-moon-and sun-rises on his way back from the moon, suddenly becoming aware that the molecules in his body and the molecules in the body of his spacecraft were created from some ancient generation of stars. And that awareness, that his own being-ness had been manufactured from the stars was so spellbinding that he – a hitherto laconic, down-to-earth (no pun intended) systems engineer – called it ecstasy. Every time he looked out the window on that three-day voyage home, he had an intense experience of absolute bliss and joy. It makes me wonder: what can possibly matter after such an experience? Or maybe you go from being a person for whom everything matters but nothing counts to a person for whom everything counts but nothing matters. I hope that’s clear.