Joanna Macy

Foreword

By Edo Segal

The confession I kept delaying was the one about what I was not feeling.

I could describe the exhilaration. I wrote about it for chapters — the twenty-fold productivity multiplier in Trivandrum, the thirty-day sprint to CES, the imagination-to-artifact ratio collapsing to the width of a conversation. I could describe the terror, too. The trillion dollars evaporating from software valuations. The senior engineer who felt like a calligrapher watching the printing press. The twelve-year-old who asked her mother, "What am I for?"

What I could not describe — what I kept skating past — was the numbness between those two poles. The mornings I opened Claude not because I had something to build but because I could not tolerate the stillness of not building. The evenings