Greetings, my people! Before we return to regularly scheduled programming, I want to share two new pieces that went into the world this week. For Glamour Magazine, I wrote about sending a letter to a stranger last fall. I didn’t know her last name or address, so I had no idea if she would get it. It was so much fun to tell that story. For TOWN Magazine, I wrote about the enduring presence and inspiration of Mother Nature as seen from the rhododendron ring in my own backyard.
The Stories We Carry Forward
Last February just before lockdown, I made a quick trip to see my teachers in New York, as I did every quarter or so. One afternoon between classes, I strolled into Rubirosa Pizza, a popular joint in Nolita with a neighborhood feel. I sat at the bar in front of the same bartender I’d seen many times before.
“Just two slices of vodka and a seltzer,” I said, barely looking up. Their slices were impossibly thin and perfectly toasted. The perfect six-dollar lunch.
“We stopped doing slices,” the guy said. Now he had my attention.
“Oh. Oh no. That’s too bad. Okay. Let me think then.”
That was when the stranger next to me jumped in.
“This might sound weird, but the same thing just happened to me. I ordered a giant vodka pizza. You can have half if you want!” I was stunned, thrilled by her generosity, and unsure if I should accept. Awkwardly, I asked if she was sure, like really sure, and we ended up having lunch together.
She had to leave before me, and when I tried to give her money, she firmly declined. I sat there blinking, wondering as always why people say New Yorkers aren’t nice.
“This is on me! Loved meeting you,” she called over her shoulder, already floating out the door. That moment stuck with me.
*
Since we last connected here on December 12, thousands upon thousands of Americans have died. States report backlogged data, but deaths are currently listed at over 4,000 people per day. That’s 4,000 families, 4,000 Zoom funerals, 4,000 clusters of grief.
In total nearly 400,000 people have been lost. I’ve already said this many times since last spring, but we are witnessing tragedy we can’t begin to wrap our minds around in scope. On top of it, Americans are struggling in everyday ways. It’s increasingly hard to stay optimistic, pay bills, homeschool children, stay connected, and hold hope that lost livelihoods and dreams will return.
Then we saw this country’s President deliberately call for violence. The thing we’d all said could happen actually happened, and we watched an attempted coup on live TV. The attackers who looked like grinning frat boys took most of the attention, but a closer look reveals a more chilling story. Eyewitness accounts from journalists give us an idea of the terror experienced by those inside.
People I know are not surprised. But they are reeling. As a nation, we wonder if healing is even possible.
*
Last week, in typical new year’s fashion, I saw countless recaps of 2020. Unlike years past, I found myself completely disinterested. I am eager to look forward—not back.
When I think about 2020, I see a dark cloud hovering that holds the full story of what happened, but the thing that elbows its way to the front of my mind is Jenny, the stranger who bought me lunch in Manhattan.
It’s the friend with a sewing machine who bounced into action the second we knew we needed masks. The people who called me on the phone. The friends who sat in my backyard, careful to make sure everyone felt safe. It’s the person who left amaro at my front door. The people who read my work. The friends who believed in me, who supported me so generously, each in their own ways. It’s the yoga teacher who carved out calm space online, week after week.
It’s my husband, who lost a career but finds ways to keep believing. It’s my dog, so thrilled we’re together all the time that he now refuses to even walk around the block without me, and pity the fool who tries to take him.
When I think of last year, I remember the people who kept giving us our groceries, medications, and necessary services—and with good cheer. I think of all the people who supported independent bookstores, ordered from restaurants, and started hyper-local and desperately needed mutual aid funds.
These are the stories I want to carry forward.
Faced with bad news at every turn, it feels powerful that we can choose how to see the world. It’s not about denying any truth. It’s not about brushing darkness under the rug. It’s about living with our eyes wide open and still recognizing the good that’s there.
When I look back on this chapter, I want to remember how the kindness and resilience of the human spirit kept us afloat.
The world holds endless questions these days, but one thing that brings me comfort is that we’re already living the answers. Radical care, community support, and leaning into our interdependence is exactly what will save us.
Between you and me—
Thank you so much for reading. I’m glad to be back here with you, and it’s bolstering to know that whatever this year brings, we’ll face it together. Sending many blessings—bye for now.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you’d like to support this newsletter, you can become a sponsor, click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!
This gave me a lot of hope! xo