“We find our greatest bliss in moments of collective effervescence,” wrote Adam Grant, an organizational psychologist at Wharton, in a recent op-ed for the New York Times.
This concept of collective effervescence was coined in the early 20th century, and describes “the sense of energy and harmony people feel when they come together in a group around a shared purpose,” Grant explained, citing examples like the synchrony experienced when sliding into rhythm with strangers on a dance floor, as well as quieter instances of connection at coffee shops and in yoga classes. “And during this pandemic,” he lamented, “it’s been largely absent from our lives.”
I know the feeling. Some days, time seems disarranged, as if it has no form or meaning. It’s difficult to focus. Everything looks blurry, and it’s tough to see ahead (and not only when I wear glasses and a mask at the same time). But other times I can recall the beauty of engaging in social interactions. The thrill of connecting with others. The renewing energy of shared joy. Those moments of collective effervescence. And I begin to feel hopeful.
One such moment occurred a few weeks ago, on the first day of an impromptu sojourn in Paso Robles, California, with my girlfriend and her mother. That afternoon, we were fortunate enough to be invited on a private tour of Firestone Walker Brewing Company’s multifaceted, movie-lot-like flagship location led by none other than its veteran brewmaster, Matt Brynildson.
It was their first brewery tour, and as someone who has taken many, I was a bit nervous about what they would think. But Brynildson, who has created some of my favorite beers, was extremely gracious with his time and knowledge. He made it accessible and fun. We talked about brewing, but also about life. My thoughts and anxieties quickly melted away, replaced by a flood of joy and excitement.
Before leaving Firestone Walker, Brynildson walked us to a large canning line and grabbed an 805, the brewery’s wildly successful Blonde Ale, for each of us. Turning his can upside down, he pointed to the packaged-on date and brought his watch close. “It’s to the minute,” he said.
“I see this beer in the supermarket,” my girlfriend’s mother responded with surprise. “I can’t believe we’re going to drink it so fresh!”
We continued chatting, sipping on our crisp, subtly sweet 805s, and the usual loud noises of automated canning soon faded into the background like the predictable whir of an air-conditioning unit. The cans never stopped coming, moving, a seemingly everlasting row of aluminum vessels marching toward their own futures, ready to head out into the world with the rest of us.
Words + Photo by Niko Krommydas