My last Substack was on gratitude, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t practice what I preach. I’ve had a lot of reader interaction this week, both on Substack and in real life, as the kids say, so I wanted to share a few things that touched me, because it’s awesome that any of you actually read my addled musings.
My (almost) brother-in-law Randy texted to tell me how much he liked the essay I wrote about the emergency shit I had to take. When I texted back that of course that’s the one essay he likes, he said that they’re all good. “This one just triggers a different reaction,” he wrote, laughy-cry-face-emoji.
I wrote that essay for Kate M. What I mean is I wanted to write something funny for Kate, who said I make her cry every time I post an essay. Because she has a point. I write sad shit, except when I’m writing about actual shit. I find shit funny. I find life sad. I find it funny how we don’t talk about our insides. And you, of course, know that when I say “funny,” what I actually mean is “sad.”
Jenn’s sister texted me too. She’s married to Randy, but she didn’t text about the shit essay. She thanked me for sharing my words. I thanked her for sharing her sister. I feel like I’ve gotten the better end of this trade-off.
My friends Courtney and Aaron, who are awesome and also read my Substack, did a Top Gun high-five when we were over at their house Thanksgiving evening.
After witnessing this heroic high-five, I was then informed that C and A sometimes do this in public, which made me, a child of the 80s, incredibly happy. It was like hearing someone say “Where’s the beef?” or seeing a woman with shoulder pads on her power suit. Anachronistic, I mean, belonging to a different time, like those who still think the earth is flat, or that billionaires have your best interest in mind.
My friend J. is transitioning. I’ve been worried, but time and work have kept me from calling. Thanksgiving afternoon we talked on the phone for the first time since J. told me. I told her I had recently watched the Netflix documentary Will and Harper, about Will Ferrell and his friend Harper, who transitioned from male to female.
“In the documentary,” I told J., “Will tells Harper he doesn’t know how to talk about her transition.”
J. has seen it. She asked me if I remembered the next line, which was (something like), “I don’t care what you talk about, as long as you keep talking to me.”
I listened to Ally Hamilton’s podcast on my way home from work Wednesday. The weather was rainy and cold and my mood was as foul as the weather. But I soon found myself quiet and contemplative as I listened to Ally. I felt like we were in conversation, even though I was just listening. (I may or may not have said “Good point!” aloud and it is possible I said “Hell yes, you tell em!” but that is not part of this essay.) Ally was talking about all the awfulness in the world right now, but I swear it was a comfort, like you know the shit she’s saying is terrible and tragic and will keep you up at night crying, but thank fuck someone else is worried about it too, if that makes any damn sense.
I’ve made a lot of friends over the years on social media and in real life. Like-minded people. Writers and artists and nurturers and carers who think deeply, perhaps too deeply, about the weight of the world. Who are cut and scarred but carry on. The older I get, the more I want to surround myself with empathetic people. Kind people, people who care, because these people have always, always, been through the wringer already. They have walked through the fire. They have experienced trauma and tragedy and have learned how to handle it, by which I mean they have learned how to keep it from killing them, or turning them into something hateful.
Because there’s too much hatred and hatefulness in the world right now. And though I left the church a long time ago, I find myself circling back to the Bible. I’ve been wondering how words of such love and wisdom have become so corrupted.
“The greatest of these is love.”
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."
“My commandment is this: Love each other as I have loved you."
“Let all that you do be done in love.”
If I had a commandment, the Commandment of Crenshaw, it would be “If you can’t love other people at least leave them the fuck alone.” But I don’t, so I’ll just say that if you’re reading this, you’re already trying. Maybe you’re still a jerk sometimes. Maybe you get stressed and angry just like the rest of us. But you’re holding it together. You’re trying. I see you, standing right beside me, flawed as we are.
So many of you have commented on my work these last few weeks. So many of you have given me words of thanks, and I want to say I’m just over here typing in the dark morning, before the sun comes up. Before dawn etches the world out of the darkness, I am trying to find some semblance of order in the universe. Some way to make sense of things. To shape my words into the sort of world we’d all like to live in.
I’m glad you’re here.
Thanks Paul, for writing that makes me cry and laugh and think and know good people still exist. Really glad to be here with you. Everyone should be reading your work 🤍
“The older I get, the more I want to surround myself with empathetic people. Kind people, people who care, because these people have always, always, been through the ringer already. They have walked through the fire. They have experienced trauma and tragedy and have learned how to handle it, by which I mean they have learned how to keep it from killing them, or turning them into something hateful.”
You’ve pretty much summed it up right there, Paul. Empathy is everything, and those of us who’ve been through the wringer, as you say, either have none at all or, like me, an overdose. It’s not hard to tell who’s who. Thank you for being one of us. This, for me, is what Substack is for, helping us to know each other better.