This week we got a call from our Brooklyn neighbors. These are friends, people we see daily. But since they’re staying at a summer cabin in New England, and we’re with family in Mississippi, we haven’t seen them in awhile.
When we all first left home, we facetimed a bunch. Then less. Our conversation gave way to texts and...it’d been a while.
Then last Tuesday morning, one of them called to say that their family was moving to Vermont. Her reasoning made sense: with two little kids, Brooklyn was a lot of work in normal times when the gifts it offered--the cultural opportunities, a walking life, proximity to neighbors--made up for challenges. These aren’t normal times. And in the last couple months, as they’d realized that both of their jobs--he is a journalist and she is an artist--could be done virtually, they’d started to imagine a new life for themselves in a more rural setting. And so with the conviction that comes from knowing intuitively and completely that a decision is right, they’d driven up to a tiny Vermont town and put a downpayment on a home with space, elegance and character (and did I say space?) that is unrealizable in our community.
As our friend mapped out her plan, my wife and I hovered over the speakerphone in a mild state of shock, saying the appropriate things: Congratulations! This is wonderful for you!
Then I tapped “end” on the call, and we both sunk back into the couch. The day had been going well until then, but that tipped it. I never really won Tuesday back.
We’re both sad to lose the daily rituals of this friendship, but this mess of feelings is something more: I am deeply jealous of these friends, not because I want to leave Brooklyn or because they now possess a gorgeous rambling farmhouse (and barn and studio) on many acres of land for less than half of the cost of their Brooklyn apartment. I’m jealous because, in the midst of all of this uncertainty, they knew a thing to do. And they did it.
As May gets started, I find myself in the midst of the quarantine doldrums. And, it’s getting to me.
Our present is still paused, and that leaves me time to spin forward, with nothing certain on which to anchor my thoughts about the future. Quarantine will continue to last for somewhere between two weeks and two years. We’ll be able to go back to some parts of our lives, but I don’t know which parts. We’ll have to return to full lockdown once. Or twice. Or over and over. Or not at all. People I know will continue to get sick. Or they might not. I probably won’t return to my office for a long time.
For our family, the next few months’ choices are many and confusing. When do we go back to Brooklyn? How long do we plan to stay there? How many of our summer commitments can we keep? We live in a rental; should we keep it, or throw our things in storage and ride this period out somewhere else?
To make these decisions, we tell ourselves all kinds of things about what the future will hold, spinning our own stories according to what we need to believe at any moment. This week I’ve heard that New York will come back because it did after 9-11 and no one thought it would. But then again, coronavirus has now killed more Americans than the Vietnam War. But then again, the stock market is up because business believes in our ability to recover! But school is now officially canceled in New York City through the end of the year. The doldrums provide endless time to write and rewrite our narratives.
But what we have are scant data points. Like our friends’ departure. I could extrapolate it out to a new reality--and really I have for most of the week--in which many of our friends will choose to leave Brooklyn, and I’ll return to a community that doesn’t feel like mine. Or I could live in the one truth I have right now: I’ll miss our friends.
Unlike our neighbors, our immediate course of action is not obvious. We don’t know what we’ll do next month. The only way to make these decisions will be to live them.
🏆Hello Monday has been nominated for a Webby! Will you help us win? We're in the category of best interview/talk show alongside giants like The Ezra Klein Show and Hear to Slay (props to Kyle's Luminary). There are two awards: one chosen by the Webby Academy, and one representing the People's Voice. That's where you come in. Voting takes about 90 seconds, and with your help, I’m certain we can at least come in NOT last. 🙄 Will you vote for us?
🎙Things I’ve made: I had Arlan Hamilton on the show this week. She’s an investor, and she founded a small firm that invests in women, people of color and queer people. She’s a badass.
🏆Things that have inspired me: It was Marc Andreessen who recently urged people to start building things. Kate Burson took that to heart: in a matter of weeks, she and a few others have launched Eldera, a virtual service that matches kids with elders for storytimes, schoolwork help or just a good hang. If you’re an elder or a youngster or just interested, check it out.
In the category of offering up the gifts that are yours to offer, Allison Rowland has launched Courageous Projects, her attempt to use our digital tools to help strengthen relationships. Allison is a master facilitator, and she is offering up her skills free.
📚Things I’m reading: On his 68th birthday, Kevin Kelly offered up 68 pieces of advice. Every last one is a gem, but the last on the list is the reason I will read everything Kevin offers up: “The universe is conspiring behind your back to make you a success. This will be much easier to do if you embrace this pronoia.” Happy Birthday, Kevin!
🎙Find me here: Recently, I joined two other podcasts, and somehow they both dropped this week. I spoke to podcast tracker Skye Pillsbury about my own career journey for her show, Inside Podcasting. And I guest-hosted Patrick McGinnis’ snappy show, Fomosapiens, so we could discuss his new book about how people make decisions.
🦠Ways to help:
Give to or Volunteer with the SF New Deal helps restaurants and their teams stay solvent by paying them to deliver food to many of SF’s most vulnerable restaurants, though a network of shelters, community centers, SROs and services to the housebound. Supported by private donations and now a partnership with SF’s Human Rights Commission, it has struck a partnership with Cruise, and paid out more than $1 million so far.
Give to the Restaurant Workers Relief Program, started by Louisville chef Ed Lee. Restaurants like Olmsted, one of our favorite neighborhood spots, and Eugene & Elizabeth’s in Atlanta (and so many more in other cities) will offer meals and supplies to layed off restaurant workers daily. I just got an email from Olmsted’s Greg Baxtrom saying funds are drying up and his suppliers, often local farms, are struggling. He offers a new GoFundMe site and a promise to keep dispensing food and supplies from his dining room as he can.
Share the things you’re seeing with me. I’ll include them on the show, write about them for LinkedIn, and pass the news on here. We’re all going to need to help each other through this. If you’ve got an idea for something significant, let’s amplify it and help make it happen.
***So maybe you’re asking, what’s this about again? You're my brain trust. I don't write for thousands. I write to exchange ideas with the small group of people I've met and who matter to me, in hopes that together we can figure out something more about where humanity is going and how it gets there. This is a team sport.