Twenty One Grams The Weight Of Experience

These words are on the wall of a café in town.

A stranger stood behind me a few weeks ago and said, “Twenty-one grams—the weight of experience.” When I looked at them, tilting my head in confusion, they told me about a study once published by Duncan MacDougall, a physician who hypothesised that souls have physical weight. He attempted to measure the mass lost by a human when the soul departed the body.

This stranger in the café said there had once been a newspaper headline that read: "Soul has weight—21 grams, physician thinks."

Some evenings, reading these words hurts my heart, while in the mornings, standing in line for a coffee, it makes me hopeful.

Keep going, I tell myself.

Some days—however long they feel—make up those twenty-one grams, the weight of experience. My experience.

Stay present, I tell myself.

Pay attention. Dance it out to breaking point. Always look up at the stars, stretching your neck until it aches.

Stop to talk to the animals. Be gentle. Sing aloud when that song comes on the radio. Cry when you’re overwhelmed.

Remember, in the evenings when you’re deeply feeling, that in the morning you’ll find meaning.

And if you can’t trust that process, trust yourself.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. You are not alone. There is you. There is them.

I look around at the strangers in line buying coffee. What do they feel?

Has he been stranded in a foreign country?

Has she looked down the barrel of a gun?

What do they think of the stars at night?

I wish them well. I only have a moment before they disappear—maybe forever.

This is it. You, me, us. Even you reading this right now.

It’s twenty-one grams—the weight of experience.