I’m not supposed to be home today. I’m supposed to be a thousand miles away, with my family and my husband; but instead, for the first time ever, I tested positive for Covid. I feel fine now, but clocked in a record 60 consecutive hours in bed (with bathroom breaks, etc). During a small block of that fever sleeping time I should’ve been flying to New England. I'm guessing it was an airplane ride a few days prior that gifted me the virus.
I’m so grateful I’ve managed to outrun the ‘rona for all this time, and really grateful that it was a bouillon experience: compact and intense. For 60 hours I was feverish, chills, foggy, and my body hurt so much even switching sleeping positions was painful. And then, —poof— I’m mostly better, if remarkably goopy and just sad to miss the fun with my peeps.
But most of all, I am extremely grateful for the amazing friends that left offerings on my stoop.
My neighbor, Jeanine, only knew I was sick because as she walked her dog one morning, she found a mauled Amazon box addressed to me, surrounded by a bunch of supplements, a book, and a shaker of sea kelp.
The previous night, a marauding band of miscreant porch pirates followed the Amazon truck through town, brandishing sticks while stealing packages. I slept as the whole thing went down. I do have stellar Ring footage of the whole heist and two thieves at my door (complete with shots of another neighbor sitting a few feet away, completely unawares). Normally I would’ve completed an expanding square search of the area, secure in the knowledge that the perps are not interested in a self help book and calming supplements, so the contents would most likely be discarded within a few blocks of my house. But since I couldn’t really be standing up enough to walk, I said fuck it and fell back asleep.
Early the next morning, Jeanine and her pups collected the remnants of my order on their walk, then left them on my stoop. I texted her the thrilling story and video footage, explaining why I didn’t go searching.
Hours later she messaged that she left some cookies on my doorstep.
I had been thinking about cookies for days.
I’ve known Jeanine for over 15 years, but I don’t know-know her. We’re neighbors, we see each other around town, we chat, we have a glass of wine together occasionally. But I don’t know what kind of cookie person she is.
Homemade cookies are one of my love languages. Little bites of sweet-with-a-wee-punch-of-salty, chewy yet crunchy, and perhaps a surprise chip or other texture is a love note for the mouth (and the soul).
From my bed to the stairs, down the stairs (19), and to the front door is 39 steps. My movements being so slow, I had plenty of time to contemplate what kind of cookie person Jeanine might be.
Is she an oatmeal-raisin gal? Or a straight up chocolate chip cookie person? I absolutely cannot picture her rolling out dough, cutting it into fussy shapes and then decorating sugar cookies. She’s very down to earth, so maybe a ginger snap or molasses cookie? I wasn’t picking up any bar cookie vibes. It’s too hot for the double-bake required to give biscotti their signature crunch. Peanut butter? Shortbread?
I opened my door to a container of cookies festooned with colored sugar. I’d say I ripped open the package and tore into a cookie, but wasn’t working with that level of energy. Rather, I shuffled back to the stairs, sat on a step, wrestled open the container, and took a bite.
I’d overlooked the cookie with the best name of them all: Snickerdoodles.
You can’t say Snickerdoodle cookie without your mouth turning up into a smile.
[go ahead, try it]
My friend Jessica demanded to know what I wanted from the grocery store. She wasn’t taking no for an answer. I requested a box of butternut soup and some bananas. An hour later, she dropped off a bag with a bouquet of ranunculus (one of my faves), the butternut soup (I really should just always have a box on hand), bananas, plus miso soup and kombucha.
Later that afternoon, my friend Libby announced she was doing a drive-by drop-off. She curated a perfect Covid relief nibble bag: bananas, tea, pedialyte, blueberry muffins, chocolate candy, and a box of popsicles.
My friends: they have my back, my belly, my hydration needs, and my heart.
Each time I opened my door to these treasures, I teared up, so overwhelmingly grateful to be thought of and to be the recipient of such loving gestures.
There does not exist, in the English language, a word for this phenomenon:
When the joy/satisfaction/relief/aid/love a person feels upon receiving a kind gesture from someone else is exponentially greater than the effort expended to generate said feeling.
I am not minimizing the labor of my friends’ shopping then driving to my house. I’m pointing out that if they expended 20-30 minutes of thought and effort, I received more than a month’s worth of love. It’s not just the cookies or the tea or the popsicles or the soup. It’s knowing that someone is holding space for me in their life, heart, and brain.
These gestures don’t need to be as grand a care package. They don’t even require money. Sometimes it's a ride, sometimes it's an ear or a hug. Sometimes it’s a friendship love note. Sometimes it could be for a stranger.
Note to self: be aware of more opportunities to be on the giving end of this equation.
Couldn’t love your journal more. But wait: child perps?! I feel like I need to know more about this detail pls.
The rona eventually gets us all. So great to have kind friends and neighbours. Loved the journal entries.