Milly Magpie

I feel like I live life in a hurry. Rush, dash, and sprint are adjectives for our times. I’m not sure of the finish line, but I am racing, and the scenery to my left and right is blurry at best. I think sometimes I might be afraid to stop. To stop means having to see and remember. Sometimes I do not want to remember or do not like what I see, but many times those mundane moments of presence translate into unexpected joy, and that joy is multiplied when shared with others. I recently read that micro joys help heal macro grief, and the collective grief gripping our nation and our world needs a billion micro joys.

A few years ago, I inadvertently followed a co-worker in and out of meetings all afternoon. We did not know each other particularly well, and in my line of work, I was surrounded by a sea of camo, name tapes, and the badges that adorn my co-workers’ uniforms. I immediately recognized the embroidered name at my eye level and remembered speaking to his wife about their upcoming move. After shuffling behind him the entire afternoon, I decided to kill the awkwardness with small talk. Always a gamble, but I took a shot. I stopped and remembered. I remembered they were moving overseas, and I asked about their plans. At first, he thought I was discussing a work trip, but then he smirked. I was talking about his family, their move, and the adventures that awaited them. It was a short conversation, and then we hustled to the next mandatory gathering. As we parted ways, he called from behind and said, “Thanks for remembering!”

I am at the stage of my life when standing in a room trying to summon the reason I entered is a daily, if not hourly, occurrence. Where I put the remote is anyone’s guess, but somehow, in that moment, I stopped and remembered. In between the hurry, I remembered his wife excitedly sharing details about their upcoming move. It was a small act and a simple reminder that we were part of the same team. Life is busy, messy, and at times downright brutal. I do not have to tell you what watching the news can feel like. Streaming my favorite shows offers an escape, but news notifications continue to ping my phone.

I have experienced acts of remembering that have put a lump in my throat and still make me feel cared for by the individual who remembered me. My favorite boss was incredible when it came to getting to know his staff. We would go off on tangents that wove our stories, struggles, and aspirations into friendly office banter. One day, we got off track, swapping stories about Colorado. I shared the time in college when I got stuck in the middle of nowhere, driving from Texas to Colorado for a ski trip during Christmas break. A car full of twentysomethings moving at a snail’s pace in white-out conditions, no radio, and the only music we had was a Connells tape that we played on repeat for hours upon hours. We eventually made it home safely, but I still can’t hear the Connells without remembering that trip. He had never heard of the Connells, so I shared the infamous album (Fun & Games), and we went back to work. That evening, I received a desperate call from my daughters, who were stuck in Kansas and needed me. I was in Georgia, so I texted him that I needed to take off to be with them, and I was going to do a turn and burn, from Georgia to Kansas and back again. He was supportive and replied accordingly, but then he texted a Connells playlist from Spotify. He remembered, and I smiled through tears. I was going to make it home safely, and so were my girls.

The death of a loved one is a gaping macro grief that is bolstered by micro joys of remembering. I recently had a conversation with a dear friend about death and the surprising reactions or inactions related to another’s loss or grief. My youngest sister, Katie, died quickly and unexpectedly due to a rare form of cancer. It has been a quarter of a century, but I still remember my mom sharing how much she missed hearing Katie’s name and the hesitancy of those around her to say Katie’s name out loud. Their silence was out of reverence, courtesy, and the fear of making my mom cry, but ironically, her greatest fear was people forgetting about Katie. Like my co-worker in the hallway, me in my office, or my parents missing their youngest child, we as human beings need to be remembered and seen. Introvert or extrovert, old or young, rich or poor, happy or sad, we want to know we matter, or the people we love and those we have lost mattered.

It might seem easier to push through and power on with your head tucked down and your heart guarded, but small acts of remembering can be the bridge that connects us. Humans are hardwired for connection, and scientific research shows our longevity is linked to the quality of our relationships. It might not feel like it some days, but we are all part of something greater than ourselves. Remembering and seeing those around us can be healing. This holiday season, slow down and take in the scenery. Take a minute to reminisce, remember, and see those around you. Remember those we love, those we have lost, and those who might just need us to say, I remember you.

“In the end, we’ll all become stories” ~ Margaret Atwood