The Boy from Mongolia

Weekly wisdom to level up your creative life in 3 minutes, for free.

A SHORT STORY

This is a photo of Tomo, who was one of my best friends when I lived in Mongolia. He lived with his Mom under the stairwell in my building, and he was always there to greet me with a smile during some dark, cold months.

I think about him often and the effect certain individuals have on our lives, the seeds they plant in you that continue to grow long after they are gone.

Tomo gave me the only experience I ever had of feeling like an older brother, and for that I am forever grateful.

One memory that I play over and over is our final goodbye. I remember I came down the stairs, and his Mother woke him up from sleeping.

And he did something he had never done before; he sniffed my right and left cheek, which is a sign of deep respect in Mongolia.

He whispered - “Hairtai shuu” (I love you).  I hugged him and wrapped my arms around his small shoulders.  I told him, “bi chamd hairtai.” (I love you, too).

Then I stood up, and walked out the door feeling so many mixed emotions as I left for the airport with the image of the immense Mongolian blue sky that was in front of me.

How do we say goodbye to the people who have left such an impact on us?

I wish I could find a teenage Tomo now and tell him how much our friendship meant to me and simply say, “bayarlaa”. 

(Thank you.)

Who is an individual who has had an impact on your own life? How could you celebrate that contribution today?

A CREATIVE TOOL

If you’re a podcast junkie like I am, I think you would love this conversation between Rick Rubin and Edward Norton. Beautiful insights on the creative process.

A PIECE OF ART

“The Rules” by Leila Chatti

There will be no stars—the poem has had enough of them. I think we can agree
we no longer believe there is anyone in any poem who is just now realizing

they are dead, so let’s stop talking about it. The skies of this poem
are teeming with winged things, and not a single innominate bird.

You’re welcome. Here, no monarchs, no moths, no cicadas doing whatever
they do in the trees. If this poem is in summer, punctuating the blue—forgive me,

I forgot, there is no blue in this poem—you’ll find the occasional
pelecinid wasp, proposals vaporized and exorbitant, angels looking

as they should. If winter, unsentimental sleet. This poem does not take place
at dawn or dusk or noon or the witching hour or the crescendoing moment

of our own remarkable birth, it is 2:53 in this poem, a Tuesday, and everyone in it is still
at work. This poem has no children; it is trying

to be taken seriously. This poem has no shards, no kittens, no myths or fairy tales,
no pomegranates or rainbows, no ex-boyfriends or manifest lovers, no mothers—God,

no mothers—no God, about which the poem must admit
it’s relieved, there is no heart in this poem, no bodily secretions, no body

referred to as the body, no one
dies or is dead in this poem, everyone in this poem is alive and pretty

okay with it. This poem will not use the word beautiful for it resists
calling a thing what it is. So what

if I’d like to tell you how I walked last night, glad, truly glad, for the first time
in a year, to be breathing, in the cold dark, to see them. The stars, I mean. Oh hell, before

something stops me—I nearly wept on the sidewalk at the sight of them all.

Grateful,

Michael