small magic

I’m hurting for the world, lately – so much so that I can barely find the words. 

Living in a city like New York means being confronted with the full spectrum of humanity on a daily basis. This both grounds me and saddens me in a way that living in small towns never could. Lately I’ve been wondering if those that we see, who are at rock bottom, are the ones that fully understand what’s going on. Because a lot of days, I want to scream in the subway, too. I want to pick up my banana and use it as a telephone, too. I want collapse on the stairway and curl up and go to sleep, too. 

I was headed to Midtown during rush hour the other day, and the train was packed. As often, the usual din of commuters was disrupted by pleas for spare change or something to eat from an unhoused disabled veteran who appeared to be very emotionally distraught. Just that sentence makes me sad. But what she was saying held my attention more particularly than usual: that she wanted to be treated like a human, and not an animal. That she was struggling. That it wasn’t fair. That she wanted to be treated with respect. 

I had nothing to offer her but compassion. As she passed into the next car, I looked at the two women sitting across from me and, catching a knowing look, said, “she has a point, doesn’t she?” They agreed. We held her in our hearts for a moment. We went on our way. 

On a day of particularly horrible news out of the Middle East and Maine last week, I gave another unhoused man my breakfast. It was all that I felt that I could do. Because otherwise, I often feel consumed by helplessness as I watch the world burn. None of us are immune to what is happening in the world right now. What started in early 2020 has continued, and worsened, with one thing right after the other right after the other as the collective weight of suffering and injustice and unrest has been normalized at levels that are unprecedented in modern times. It’s just not okay. 

I feel powerless in the face of such suffering, both locally as I see the struggle of so many on my daily commute, and globally as I try and make sense of how there could still be so much evil in the world. Despite it all, I do believe that there is still humanity in us, and hope. And I believe that we still have compassion and grace to offer. That we owe it to each other. That we owe it to ourselves. 

I was speaking with a friend late last week about seeking compassion for my younger self, whose own capacity for self-love and self-forgiveness was limited. Our conversation prompted me to revisit some of my earlier writing, which I keep in a vintage blue floral suitcase under my bed. And what I found surprised me: a girl who just wanted to love people. Who was struggling to be understood, but that struggle did not prevent her from seeking understanding. And who had a lot to give to the world, even if it took her a while to make sense of it. 

We all have hard years. I have had a few, or ten, recently. And while I found a strength within me that started what I know now is a lifelong journey to treat myself with compassion and grace, none of that strength would have been possible without real and consistent help and constant redirection from dozens of people who blessed me with so many tiny magic moments along the way. 

Last November, I decided to just put it down for a while. To put down what I was carrying and sit with how far I had come. And actively and intentionally practice gratitude towards those who have helped me along the way. And so I wrote letters – some short, others long – to the people who had helped me get through. 

We are all we have, right now. And we are all we have, maybe ever, maybe always. And so I’d like to invite you to practice gratitude alongside me this November. 

Starting Thursday, and continuing for the next two weeks until Thanksgiving, I invite you to write a daily note to someone who has helped you this year, someone you love, or someone who you think needs a little extra light in their lives. This could be anything – a simple text message, a post-it note, a song, or a full-blown letter that you send through snail mail – but share it. Whatever compassion and grace and light and love you have, please share it. 

And if you feel so compelled, share some of it with me. I’ll share anonymous excerpts from your notes and mine on this blog and on social media through the end of the month. It’s not going to save the world, but it might heal you a little bit. It might help someone in your community feel a little bit less helpless, or a little bit less alone. It might be the spark on top of a spark on top of a spark that starts a fire. And that is truly small magic.