After four days of walking around New York City in a bomb cyclone and below-freezing temperatures, I sank into my seat on the plane. It was 9 PM on Sunday night at LaGuardia, and I was tired. We’d dragged our bags around Brooklyn all day, snow still on the ground, catching up with friends and watching kids sled the hills in Prospect Park. My hand was finally liberated from its glove and regaining function in the warm, stale air of the plane, so I rummaged around in my carryon till I found it: A white paper bag of dried fruit dipped in chocolate from Russ and Daughters. I’d bought it Friday morning just as the snow started to come down.
Without stopping to think, or offer any to my husband three rows back, I inhaled one piece after another, targeting the bits of dried orange peel first. In that moment, they were the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. Bright notes of citrus tangled with smooth dark chocolate. This, I thought, is heaven.
I stretched my legs, relishing an unexpected upgrade to Comfort Plus, and reached for more. My tiny, satisfying sugar rush—exquisite with delight—would not have existed, I realized, without my friend Leah.
Leah, my college roommate and lifelong confidante, had taken us into her home in upper Manhattan during the bomb cyclone, where she welcomed, fed, and clothed us. I am not exaggerating; John’s coat was stolen just as the blizzard revved up, so he was legitimately very cold until Leah opened the doors of her closet and pushed him in. He wore her coats for the rest of the weekend.
I arrived at Leah’s apartment disheartened and exhausted, snow pummeling my face from five different directions, pointing an umbrella out in front of me like a shield, dressed like a Southerner simply trying her best. I could barely think. But Leah gave me Boursin and crackers, put me to bed for an hour, and waved ballet tickets under my nose to lure me back to life.
My frustration with our inhospitable day in New York began to fade. These moments are part of reality, and Leah and I are happily living them together. On Sunday morning, when it was time to depart for Brooklyn, Leah pushed the bag of chocolate-covered fruit into my hands as I rushed out the door.
“Don’t forget this!” she cried. I was still too tired to put up a fight.
***
Sometime at the height of the Omicron surge, I noticed that everyone around me was showing each other intricate levels of care.
The week after Christmas, when there was a possibility we had been exposed to the virus but couldn’t find antigen tests anywhere, we canceled dinner plans with friends to be safe. They delivered the meal to our doorstep anyway.
In January, in the weeks leading up to a big concert for John, I spoke to several friends about the matter of deciding what to wear. One said I could shop her closet for shoes and sent photos of everything that might work. Another gave me KN94s in black, so I would feel both safe and fashionable in filtered virus protection that matched my dress. Another asked to see pictures from the night, despite being only two days postpartum and deep in the throes of newborn life. Leah helped me decide what heels to wear over text.
At the post-concert reception, John was busy talking his way through the crowd after the orchestra’s successful performance. A friend of ours took one look at his eyes, large and unfocused, and said, “Let me get you something to eat.”
Another friend attended the second show and took us to dinner afterwards. She insisted, she was happy, she was proud of John. I got a message from Brooklyn that said Please tell John to break a leg, and Leah texted from Manhattan in all caps: HOW WAS IT? Our friends made the entire weekend sweeter with their care.
***
For two years, connection has been stripped from our lives. We have been separated by the very nature of our breath. Before Covid, our breath united us, weaving us together with a bond we couldn’t fully appreciate till it was gone. That was another time. We wrapped chatter around each other in conversation; we sang together in church; we screamed in unison at sporting events; we belted our favorite lyrics out at concerts, voices intertwined and daring, bodies pressed together without a thought.
Then, that which was life-giving became life-taking, and we were torn apart by disease. Connection, that vital yet seemingly frivolous need, threatened to disappear. Since then, we’ve had to fight for it.
Yet in the midst of another surge, depleted and drained by it all, the people in my life chose each other. Their gestures of care were tiny and magnificent.
When John’s coat was stolen in New York, four different friends, none of whom know each other, all offered him their closets. Leah reached him first. But everyone’s willingness to help illustrated how defiantly people and their generosity balance life’s harsh moments. One person might steal your coat during a blizzard, but four others will rush to your rescue. If you’re lucky, you will never be cold on your friends’ watch.
***
Discovering that care bolsters your life with its warmth is no small miracle. Though it’s a wonder that, in my experience, requires some cultivation. In the past, I occasionally nurtured the wrong relationships, pouring energy into places that left me feeling forgotten, offended, or misunderstood. After too many miniature cases of heartache, I finally learned to invest in relationships that feel reciprocal at their core. I focused my attention, my wondrous care, on friendships that offer the same in return. Now I am reaping the rewards.
No act of care is too big—we know this. Huge, life-altering gestures. Matters of finance and real estate. Anyone can imagine the possibilities. But it’s important to remember, and easy to forget, that no act of care is too small, either.
In the face of disease, we have discovered that care is vital, and connection indispensable, a fundamental part of our wellbeing. We could have stopped trying along the way, but instead, we learned to insist.
Acts of care are threads in the fabric of our lives, woven intricately together to hold us even when crisis threatens to rip us apart. Calls made. Snacks shared. Bread delivered.
These tiny gestures of friendship make up a life. We will be okay if we keep making each other tea and helping each other laugh. We will be okay if we insist on keeping each other warm until the day we die.
Between you and me—
Hello out there! Thank you so much for your heartfelt notes in response to “Let Your Haters Hate.” That one was fun to write, and it was such a treat to hear your related thoughts and experiences. I also had a great time reading it to you:
The audio version is available on Spotify, Apple, Substack, or anywhere you listen to podcasts.
This week, I was searching for research and art on the topic of care and found this poem. I’m a little obsessed. Looking for something worth believing in, divinity, meaning. In everyday acts of love and can opening. Yes.
I always adore February, because Valentine’s Day is great, and the perfect excuse for a red and pink manicure, but more importantly, it flies by and means March is right around the corner. March is my favorite month. If I weren’t a March baby, would it be so? The world will never know.
I’ll see you next time. Take care out there.
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