Cases of joy in a monetized world

“Not everything that can be counted is counted, and not everything that can be counted.” ~ William Bruce Cameron

My gardener and I were talking about his English broken the other day and my Spanish was bad, but we found a way to connect.

He told me about his 8-year-old son, a bright and fun child who loves baseball. The boy wants to play. His mother wants him to be individualized. And somewhere in that gap, a bigger question came to mind: what’s more important – discipline or joy?

I wasn’t going to give advice, but it came out anyway. “Let him play the ball,” I said. “Make him part of the team, fall in love with something and let him feel what it’s like to give yourself to the game you care about.” Maybe there’s room for a weekend or part-time call. But I couldn’t shake the senses too often. We pushed them onto something useful before we knew what they like.

The conversation stayed with me. Because it reflects something bigger and more troublesome. I feel almost everything in my life is monetized.

From birth to death, we are priced and processed. Pregnancy is a bill. Day care is a business. College is debt. Even deaths are streamlined into premium, standard and economic packages.

Want to talk to a therapist? That costs you. Want some beautiful food? That’s an extra. What is a safe place to live? It depends on your credit score. Even time with loved ones feels distributed by work schedules and productivity apps. Presence has a price tag.

All monetization is more than just an economic system, it has a cultural atmosphere. It sneaks quietly into turning art into content, friendship into followers, and value into branding strategies. We exchange your attention for advertising, convenience. And as the world becomes more globalized, centralized and digitized, this idea is efficient, scalable, and soul shit.

However, there are prices and some that cannot be counterfeited: flow.

A flow is an immersive state in which effort fades away, time softens and is completely absorbed by what we are doing. It’s a feeling of complete life and focus. Not because you are chasing the rewards, but because you are adjusting to the task itself.

I remember pitching in Little League when I was 10 years old. I wasn’t the best, but in one short inning, everything was clicked. I stopped thinking. The ball moved like a part of me. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I was just in the game. That was the flow. And I followed that feeling through much of my life, through music, writing and education.

I spent most of my life as a teacher, filmmaker and writer. Not because it made me rich, but because it gave me something to live. Now, I’m 70 years old, and I’m helping to take care of my 96-year-old mother. But work is still important. So does she.

My mother’s caregiver – most often, women of colour – is photographed daily. They help her to eat, dress, and smile. They are almost not paid well, but they move through the days with compassion, grace and humor. Their labor doesn’t fit into a tidy spreadsheet of profits. Still, it holds the world together.

It makes me wonder: What happens to society where we forget how to cherish things that cannot be monetized?

We know something is wrong, but we don’t know what to do. We still need to find ways to survive in a system that pays rent, buys groceries, rewards efficiency over depth, and grasps our presence. There is no clear answer. Just tension, quiet resistance, and sometimes – if you’re lucky, it’s a clear moment.

So I say again: let the boy play. Whether you’re winning, being a star, running with others, being on a team, laughing, working hard, and feeling the joy of learning. Let him develop a friendship that may last a lifetime. Let me feel the meaning of improving being part of something bigger than yourself, which is more important than your trophies.

And maybe just let him find the flow. If the conditions are correct, in the field, or even in tutoring, if learning is alive and the focus is real. Whether it’s a game or a classroom, flow is the goal. That’s where confidence comes from. That’s where joy lives.

Of course, I know that Little League can be a broken heart of its own kind. When the game has the advantage, when adults project their regrets and anxiety on boys, when the coach forgets that it should be fun, it can hurt the mind intended to nourish.

That’s why you need the right coach. A person who listens. It’s someone who knows for a while that it’s a boy’s world, and knows that this game is at its best, teaching you how to take care of it, lose by grace, try again and trust others.

I told his father all this with our clumsy English and Spanish mix. I told him I wanted his son to play. It’s not because it leads to measurable things. But it’s already valuable.

Sometimes the best thing we can do is to be willing to open the door and play with the player.