November 19th, 2024
I work in an industry where people often complain on both sides of the table, and live in a world where that’s true at least a hundred times more, but I had two experiences last week in that work, in this world, that were wonderful, and I’m just going to write about them today.
The second was a birthday party.
It was a group of older women (older than me, I mean) celebrating their friend’s birthday. They were having lunch and clearly had known each other for decades, if not their whole lives. The guest of honor was soft-spoken and her pals were there for her completely; I actually wasn’t prepared for how entirely.
Their meal was brought to the table and as I walked away I heard one of the women say to the birthday girl of her plate: “If you want, I can cut that up for you.”
My body reacted before I could. My eyes filled up with seawater and I darted for the nearest coral reef.
For many, when we consider who takes care (or is going to take care) of us, we think of our family: our parents, our siblings, our children, the person we form a romantic relationship with. But for many, friends are those people, and it is one of the most beautiful damn things to witness.
You know: a good reminder that when you get down to it, we actually do care about each other in the most selfless ways.
I love my friends. Because everyone is so busy and we live in a country that seemingly only exists to sap every ounce of energy we produce like the machines in The Matrix, most days all we can do is send each other a text or link or meme to let each other know we’re thinking of them. But we do make time for each other, through it all: game nights and birthday parties and TV dates and movie times. And I do know that if any of them ever needed me to cut their lunch, I wouldn’t hesitate to pick up my knife.
The first happened earlier in the week.
Two women, also friends, were also having lunch together. One of them ordered a salad and was less-than-excited to discover that it had raw tuna on top.
“Well, it’s an adventure,” she said when I asked how it was, which is not a ringing endorsement in my field.
I kneeled down to her level and we chatted about how to make it better. I disappeared for a few minutes, we fixed her lunch more to her liking, and I was about to walk away when she stopped me:
“Your mother must be so proud of you.”
I stopped in my tracks, clenching every muscle in my body while searching for the ones that controlled my tear ducts.
“I… I think so,” I said.
“No,” the woman repeated. “She is.”
I talk a lot of monsters. Mostly the ones inside of me. I have been the worst, and it’s why I so strongly believe in the idea that we can get better. It takes honesty and humility and self-reflection and education and admission of wrong-doing and deconstruction of ego and so, so much work, and that work never ends.
Some days I have very little pride in myself, and every single day I lack a mom to give me any. Some days all I can think about is my monsters, especially when I’m trying to fight them.
I was doing some of that this day and, by some miracle, some thing I don’t and can’t understand, my mom wanted to let me know.
That was just really fucking kind.
And all these words today are a reminder of that kindness. It’s here; by that, I mean, it’s not out there. It’s in our relationships, our friendships, it’s in our interactions with total strangers in our communities. It’s in cutting each other’s food; it’s in telling each other how proud we are.
It’s in you.
I hope you can choose it today, and I hope it’s available to choose every day.
The Den 