I was told my son would be my greatest teacher. What follows is my first lesson.

There is something primal and sacred about feeding him. Sustaining him. He sleeps. He feeds. He looks around for a few minutes. He repeats.

The machine-like sucking has an automaticity and repetition that’s hard wired. He knows how to do this. He must do this. And when too long has passed since he has, his frustrations are audible.

Then he feeds and all is well.

Our lives appear more complicated than my son’s. I don’t think they are.

What’s the thing that you must do, and having done, pacifies your anxieties for another day? What sustains you?

For me, this is writing. I cannot not write. What’s most absurd: I’m not even that good at it.

I read to warmup. I just finished some Pressfield books. This morning was Gladwell and Holiday. When I read these distant mentors, I experience two thoughts:

1) “They’re not much better than me. I can do this.”

2) “They are gods. I’ll never be able to do this.”

More often it’s the latter.

I am the white belt watching the black belt train. His movements seem unfathomable. His mastery of the craft is irrefutable. He possesses a competency that seems impossible to attain.

I’ll never be able to do that.

I remember this feeling. I was that white belt. Thousands of feedings later, however, now the white belts watch me.

What feeds you?

Maybe its Jiu Jitsu or writing or some other endeavor. Or the love of family and friends. It could be a place – the trees speak to me with more clarity than most people.

The thing that, having done, makes the day a good day, even if you don’t do it well. That’s a macronutrient. Just as necessary as protein, fat, and carbs for your survival.

You need that like my son needs milk. The world is full of starving adults who lost the bottle. Their empty eyes reveal the depth of their hunger. They fill this void with family drama, social media, and distraction.

There’s no sustenance there. Their hunger prolongs.

And this is good. It reminds us that we need to feed. The same impulse that wakes my son to feed we experience as existential frustration. It’s a call to feast.

And we are all fed by something.

It is my belief, that just as I enjoy feeding my son, so does life enjoy feeding us. We are sustained. We are provided for. The milk is just as sweet.

The only difference is that we must get our own bottles.

Thoreau put it this way:

“How prompt we are to satisfy the hunger and thirst of our bodies; how slow to satisfy the hunger and thirst of our souls!”

The parent feeds the child. The adult must feed himself.

So, what feeds you?