Ed. note: It’s easy to believe that literally every single thing on this earth is broken, awful, and/or doomed. But it’s not true. Some things (not most, but some!) are good. Here are a few unexpected moments—and geese—that have comforted us, given us hope, or brightened a difficult day.
Ann: My last birthday was a large number with a 0 after it, and my neighbors gave me a surprise party. They told my brother who knows I’m embarrassed by surprises, even nice ones, so he told me. I thought I would find a way out of or around it but then I thought I should shut up and gratefully accept this gift so graciously given. And oh man was I right because it wasn’t so much a party as it was a champagne flash mob: everybody showed up on the lawn with bottles of champagne, put the bottles and plastic glasses on a table, and called it a party—no expectations, no center-of-attention, just pour these generous souls a little more champagne. I don’t know when I’ve been so happy—I felt like we lived in separate houses with one roof over us all.
(My brother took this picture, privacy-blanked out the background of my dear neighbors.)
Jenny: My dad died. Okay, that’s obviously not the comforting thing–although in some ways his passing was a relief, after a long stretch of things being not very good for him (or us). But what happened that I found truly wonderful was that, as my only sibling lives in Asia and couldn’t get to Chicago quickly for a funeral, a cousin of mine INSISTED on flying in to meet me the very next day to help with whatever needed doing (staying for three days!), and he came prepared to lead a small service, beautifully. We all have those times when family members drive us crazy or piss us off. But sometimes they’re the only ones who know just what to do and are willing to do it.
Cameron: At the camp where we go every summer, one family makes coffee every morning for anyone who wants to show up. It’s really lovely and sounds a little bit like the champagne flash mob: you can wander by and get a cup, stay as long or as little as you want, park yourself in a camp chair, or leave and then realize you want to go back. I missed that no-expectations feeling during a fall where I felt like there were a lot of expectations, many of them self-inflicted. So the morning after Thanksgiving, we did the same thing in front of our house: put out coffee (and also donuts and muffins) and neighbors wandered by to chat. The whole thing felt pretty magical, almost like summer camp.
Kate: Someone somewhere made some kind of mistake. My sister had ordered an absolutely incredible pair of earrings for me: hand-sculpted polymer clay geese wearing witch hats, sunglasses, and dangly high-heeled boots that kick exuberantly whenever the wearer turns their head.
The witch geese arrived—and so did five other pairs of earrings. By the time I was finished opening all the packages, I had 1) my witch geese and 2) glittery ghosts; 3–5) little silver stars, snowflakes, and ears of corn; and…
My sister and I offered to send the Christmas corn back to the artist. I’d already benefited from their silliness, and if someone else had ordered them, we didn’t want them to go without. The artist said she had no idea how the earrings had come to me, but that she’d already sent a replacement to the original buyer.
So: The Earrings of Corn and all their attendant joy will abide. They’re a bit too heavy for casual wear, which is great, because they make incredible ornaments for my darling Witch Tree. In another bit of magic, my partner discovered that stomping on the living room floor sets all four little corn boots a-dancing. My downstairs neighbor, that blaster of NSYNC at all hours of the night, is going to have a very long winter.
Christie: I can’t tell you how often I have returned to look at this photo. It was taken almost exactly a month after my dad had a massive stroke (he survived, with severe physical impairments) and two weeks after my best friend’s son died by suicide. It was such an unfathomably hard time, and it seemed like I would never be happy again. We were scheduled to have our annual farm dinner/party for members of our Wine Club, and my winemaker husband wanted the party to go on as planned. I was extremely hesitant. It was September, 2021, and the pandemic was still very much with us. The event was entirely outside, but everything just felt dangerous and terrible. In retrospect, I wasn’t sure I could give myself the joy of our annual party.
But somehow I agreed, and the party went on, and you know what? I had a great time! The next day my sister-in-law sent me this photo of me at the party. I have kept it with me ever since, because it is physical proof that I can experience joy again after so much heartbreak and loss. When I look at this photo, I see genuine happiness. I’m reminded that grief is just a flavor of love, and you can’t have one without the other.
It is now two years later, and the world is still shit—perhaps even more shit, because Rosalynn Carter has died and there are wars raging in the Middle East and Ukraine, but this lesson has stuck with me. There is always something terrible going on, and yet there is also joy and delight if you can find it. And find it, we must.
Helen: My dad also died, unexpectedly, right around Thanksgiving, in a year when my whole family, him included, had been focused on my mom’s health. On the last day of his life, 17 people crammed into his ICU room and sang to him for about half an hour. (The visitor limit was 2—thanks, hospital staff.) These were friends I’ve sung with for years as part of a community theater group. In the absolute low point of my life thus far, these beautiful people showed up in body and voice to honor my dad. He most likely was not aware of it, but it meant the world to me.
Jane: The other day I hopped on my bike to ride to a dentist’s appointment. I was running late, of course, so when I saw traffic stopped about a mile into my ride, my first instinct was to be annoyed. As I approached the back-up, my annoyance softened: it was a gaggle of geese, and cars in both directions were stopped as they slowly plodded across the street towards the lake. The last goose to cross was a little unsteady on their feet, but the rest of their friends waited for them, then regrouped and continued their trek. The whole thing lasted maybe a minute, so we weren’t waiting long, but I was touched by the collective patience and gentleness of all who were stopped; there was no honking, no aggressive scooting forward—just a moment to pause and take a breath.
Emily: Today I got a letter in the mail from one of my heroes, Dr. Irene Sakaishi, announcing her retirement after 45 years of running our local veterinary clinic. Everyone here knows and loves Doctor Irene—she’s taken care of every pet I or my family has ever owned since I was a kid. Her clinic is tucked up in the poorest corner of our county, and she’s never charged more than she needed to stay open. Nearly every time I’ve left her practice, I’ve looked at the bill and said, “Wow. That’s it?”
In the early days of the pandemic, she and her team did their work in the clinic parking lot. I remember waiting for Calliope to get her kitten vaccines while Dr. Irene euthanized someone’s family dog in the back of a minivan. She did it with such empathy and tenderness, I still cry thinking about it. It was such a shit time, not unlike the present shit time, but I think Dr. Irene is the kind of person who quietly helps keep entire communities from completely losing their grip. I’m so sad she’s retiring—I will miss her and miss simply knowing she’s around—but I’m also grateful that she gets to retire. I will always be grateful for her intelligence and compassion, as will Calliope (even if Dr. Irene did make fun of her primordial pooch once).
Craig: My teenage kid drove out for the holidays and we’re now putting on boots and jackets to walk in the woods looking for deer sheds and pinecones, whatever we find that’s beautiful and curious to bring back to the house. We’ll string them up to celebrate whatever it is we celebrate this time of year.
Last night, I sat in the kid’s bedroom where they picked up a guitar I’d set out, and they started playing a sweet little tune. I said that’s your great grandfather’s guitar, and when he was in a nursing home before he died, I came to visit him with it. Though he could scarcely remember who I was, he played for me and I was slapping my knee and he was singing, a great memory of mine. My kid played along to the story, and when I was done kept playing as I sat on the floor and listened, watching their purple bangs hang down as fingers plucked strings. I thought, this is the most wonderful moment of my life. Hold onto this with all your might.
I’d write more about it, but it’s time to go into the woods together and find more beauty.
Kate again: Since we’re on the geese thing, I would be remiss if I didn’t share this haiku that recently made my day. Kobayashi Issa is my favorite of the haiku masters. His life was marked by loss and tragedy, yet he managed to find levity and tenderness in the smallest things. This one’s from 1804.
pooping on the farmer's umbrella-hat the goose departs
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Header image from Unsplash. All other photos are ours.
“I thought, this is the most wonderful moment of my life. Hold onto this with all your might. ” <–I'm saving this in my stockpile of intense vicarious pleasures
These shorties are proof of the title. Thank you all for the uplift of your stories of simple kindnesses.
Quite delighted reading each individual’s contribution… my third year hostage to long covid the cosmos gave me a nudge out of my abode of nearly 13 years where the formerly bucolic setting had been defiled, along with toxic new management unappreciative of my neurodivergence fortunately kicked me out – now six months later Im about to move into a a lovely cottage owned by a former classmate of my youngest son. We’d had frequent playdates with her autistic brother often invited specifically due to our ease and acceptance of his unique personality and all of its quirks.
The bonus – in light of Oregon now rated #1 numbers of homeless- Rapid Rehousing Grant paid all my storage fees , motel rent and movers fees as I sign the lease one week from today. I’d given away all climbing, hiking gear and packs and books and maps and mountain bike and hitch and my furniture – the downsizing allowing a fresh new start – inner and outer ! Huzzah!
I really am thankful that people share what has happened to them, good or bad. These stories pull me toward people rather than away which is what has been happening for the last three years. My friend called me today, knowing I was sick with the flu and we just talked and laughed and admired each other. I also questioned her going to the feed store to get live bugs for her tarantulas, so un-Buddhist of her. Another grateful laugh.
“I’m reminded that grief is just a flavor of love, and you can’t have one without the other.” Lovely, Christie.
Tough year- Three cousins died. Oh how I loved them and will miss them even though they lived 1300 miles away. Grief is a flavor of love and I will always have both love for them as well as my grief.
Thank you.
I love the spirit of every one of your essays. Especially Jenny Holland’s, as I know her and admire her so much. Jenny, your voyage with your dad spoke to me and to my memories. We’re the generation now ushering our parents toward death, and I know it’s much different than it was for our parents and their parents.
I almost died but didn’t.
How do I write to and for the people to whom unthinkably sad things have happened; and for whom there is, at this time, no present comfort or hope of any? How do I write for the non-believer dying of a painful illess? How do I write for the woman who has watched the natural world around her devoured year after year by development? How do I write for the mother whose shining 48-year-old son died on the last day of the last year? How do I write into the heart of suffering without offering a tedious reminder that time moves on, things change, the fucking sun will rise yet again? Instead, I write to remind you that optimism is easy to express when you have enough money to live on. Hope is a con. Sometimes we need to feel bleak. We need to feel despair. We need to be honored for the courage to give up. We need to simply be the powerless animal that we are.