A Baton Passed

The money wasn't going to change his life. Nor did he need it to. In the years before his Uncle's unanticipated passing, he had remained financially comfortable. Some might even say prosperous. To many, his life would be seen as well-off, beyond suitable--enough. And they would be right. He was okay. Happy. Content. And though he was of course grateful for the benefaction from his late relative, he would gladly pay $20,000 of his own to have his Uncle back. Even just for one last story.

That is what his Uncle was, a storyteller. A world-traversing devoted ally to life itself. A collector of experiences and an expert at weaving them together to create a symphony of words for the ears of anyone fortunate enough to feel their vibration. Stories so impassioned and full of life they physically rearranged him in his seat as she shared them. His excitement to paint a picture, his eagerness to tell tales of a faraway world, coursed through his body; an impossibility for him to sit still any time he was given the opportunity to tell you about the world. He wanted you to meet every soul he encountered across what seemed to be an endless expanse of people and places. He had been what felt like everywhere. And with him, always within his grasp, invariably in and out of his pocket, an extension of himself, a tool of the artist, a platform for the thoughts and feelings of an extravagant man, a means of transportation down the bustling avenues of a curious mind: his mysterious little black book.

For as long as his nephew could recall, it had never left his Uncle's side. Nor was there ever another set of eyes that had even the slightest chance afforded to peek at its pages. His Uncle was by no means protective of it, and maybe he would have even welcomed sharing it, but there seemed to be a universal recognition that to open a journal that does not contain your own mind, particularly without permission, would be an uninvited admission into the intricacies of an individual; a trespass into a world that does not belong to you. Of course this did not curb his nephew's irreparable curiosity as to what thoughts had instructed his Uncle's pen and the marks they left in a journal never once seen in the hands of another, but he enjoyed the mystery of it all even more.

The sole proprietor of the enigmatic pages within--his favorite Uncle--ached to one day see a better world. He knew this because he was his Uncle's most dedicated and awestruck member of the audience to a stage overrun by profound stories. He spent his childhood counting down the days to when an international flight would bring his Uncle home where he would once again get to hear stories of how beautiful the world is, and how wonderful, welcoming, and inspiring its inhabitants are. But his globetrotting Father's brother too did not shy from the truths so often ignored when one looks out across the magnificence of the populated world. Within the limitless beauty of our diverse planet, the one his uncle fell star-crossed, head over heels in love with, remains its shadow; a place of darkness, suffering, inequality, pain. All across the world, down every street in every town in every country you will find people who are hurting. And though it is never a comfortable topic--one most audiences do not wish to hear from a traveler come home--his Uncle never hid from the details of a complicated human community.

It would be irresponsible, really, to ignore the problematic reality of our world. Just as it would be not to celebrate its wonder. His Uncle knew that if he had an audience, this truth must be told. Was it difficult to hear? Of course. It is always easy to avoid anything that that makes uncomfortable. But his stories never left you sad, no. They inspired you. They called you into action. They left you with not only the desire to change the world, but the absolute belief that you could--even more so that you needed to.

His Uncle never cared much for the allure of money. It was certainly necessary to have, but he viewed it more as a tool: something with a function outside of purchases and accumulation. It was surely not to make money grow into more money, or hoarded with the intention to reach an ever-growing, forever-out-of-reach number. Rather it was a mechanism; one that could be used to improve not only our own lives, but the lives of others. It did not need to buy a brand new car if it could feed our neighbor next door. It did not need to purchase the largest house when it could aid the people on the frontlines of an international disparity. Money had a function, and as much as his Uncle wished it were not so relied upon, he knew it was essential in the attempt to make progress--together.

For any traveler there is an unmistakable privilege. To get on a plane and fly across the world and experience the cultures, lifestyles, and worldviews different than our own is a luxury not administered to everyone. It is an even grander privilege to see what exists outside of our own bubble: the good and the bad, the miraculous and the uncomfortable, the prosperities and the inequities, to then not act on the knowledge gained, or worse, ignore it. This was the common conclusion to each of his Uncle's stories: an illumination of the unavoidable entanglement of billions of lives, and how we cannot progress if we do not get involved in bridging the divides across our borders, our streets, and even our own backyards. Traveling the world, whether physically or through the tales of another, is a life-altering experience, sure, but it comes with a responsibility. If you ever met his Uncle, then you undoubtedly heard him say at least once: "The world is beautiful, but it needs our help.It deserves our help."

The family's famed storyteller was never one to call himself a religious man. Though he always pleaded with his audience to never condemn someone with beliefs different than their own. To respect and appreciate the fact that diversity does not only lie on the outside of our bodies, but within our minds as well. "Life is beautiful. Diversity is beautiful. And life is beautiful because it is diverse." His nephew had it memorized; a line he had heard a million times. And now he ached to hear him say it once more. But he startled himself with a smile at the thought, for he knew his Uncle would have some wise crack about how you needed to appreciate something while you still have it in front of you.

He was taken too soon. The world lost an incredible man before it was ready to say goodbye. There was more his Uncle wanted to do. There was more he believed he needed to do. He was not done teaching others about the world. He had more stories to share. He had more stories to write. There were more lives that would benefit from the man whose heart beat stronger for other bodies than his own. And now he was gone. To know there were people out there who would never get to meet his Uncle--that is what hurt the most.

He was not surprised when his Uncle's estate attorney notified him that he had been given $20,000. His Uncle saw the world and shared his stories, and his nephew had always been his most committed listener. While other's eyes glazed over or pulled out their phones, he watched and listened to his Uncle almost in a trance from beginning to end. From Patagonia to London, Manila to Lima, Vientiane to Medellin, Anywhere and Everywhere to right there in front of him. They loved each other--like a father loves a son, like a friend loves a best friend. They shared a passion for the world, and his Uncle's stories were what arrived them to this common ground. That was more than enough of a gift from his late Uncle. He was given the time of a wonderful man. That was enough. So why did his Uncle give him the money? There must have been a reason, something outside of spending. For his Uncle always repeated that money was a tool. It had a function. It could help people.

The attorney was not done. The money was not given alone. Along with it came an unknown object, rectangular in shape, wrapped in a tattered old t-shirt...his Uncle was never one to wrap his presents. To be expected from an untraditional man. As was his ability to shock his nephew--a talent carried beyond the grave it would seem.

His stomach sank as he caught his first glimpse of a corner belonging to the previously unidentified object--and he knew. It was what he had once believed could only be owned by one person--his Uncle. He picked it up and slowly grazed his hand across the cover; one so worn it seemed it had experienced everything its previous owner had. And perhaps it did. It undoubtedly looked the part with its overworked binding, frayed pages, and mysterious stains.

To his Uncle, an adventure--or really a life--without his little black book would be like a carpenter without wood, an artist without a canvas, a photographer without a subject. So it felt wrong to see this book, this travel companion, separate from its once inseparable partner--but only momentarily. For when his nephew opened to the first page, he read aloud the words written large enough to take up the entire space: "Your own personal guide to changing the world (or at least yours to start.)" This book did not belong to his Uncle, it belonged to anyone--everyone.

He was surprised to see--or rather not see--that his Uncle's name was not written above the line next to the words, "This journal belongs to:" Instead he wrote a single word: "You." This journal belongs to You. It was never meant to belong solely to his Uncle; it belonged to whoever held it in their hands. A journal that if ever lost was sure to be found. It was meant to be found. A black book once thought to be protected by his Uncle was instead destined to be its opposite--exposed. And now it sat in the hands of his nephew: a transaction of ideas, a baton passed.

It took him hours to flip through every page, as he refused to miss even a single word. This was not only the realized immortalization of his Uncle's stories, it was a blueprint. Every page littered with his Uncle's thoughts and ideas, formulas scratched and scribbled on how he was going to change the world. His stories had always been a soapbox to share why he wished to change the world, but this once mysterious little black book, this mystical journal, was the how.

It was clear now. The money was not a gift--it was a commitment. An agreement to dive into the pages of a world-trekking journal and identify a way to bring its content to life (with a little help from his Uncle's wallet) and carry on what his Uncle had achieved with his stories.

In the years before he lost his Uncle, he did not need money. He had been comfortable. He was okay. Happy. Content. But this money wasn't meant to change his life, it was meant to change the world.