Hi there,
Have I got a story for you! Three, actually. They are short and lovely, and they prove the point that even brief human interactions can change us in either small or —if we are really lucky — transformative ways.
Don’t talk to strangers is among the critical exhortations we internalize as children. Then suddenly, you are unshackled from that as an adult and the world becomes your oyster. You can — if you want and feel safe and the other person is interested — engage in conversation with the individual seated next to you on a plane, in line with you at the supermarket, or in a crowd grousing about a much- delayed train. I love these public encounters. It’s a chance to hear stories I might never have heard from fellow humans I might otherwise have had no opportunity to meet. And it fills the time, especially when I’ve forgotten to bring a book because I rarely bring a book to the grocery store.
There’s a sanctity to these moments, as well, I think. They often create the possibility to perform a chesed, an act of kindness. They feel like little reminders that we are meant to talk to one another, that this is what G-d wants us to do. And they both open the world and shrink it in all the best ways.
For example
Just yesterday, I was on a very long line at Marshall’s, so long that I wondered if maybe it was Black Friday and I had fallen into a time warp. We were stalled. I noticed a tear on the shirt in my cart and wanted to see if there was another one on the rack.
“Excuse me,” I asked the woman in front of me. The woman behind me was on her phone and seemed to be watching a movie. “Would you mind holding my spot? The line isn’t moving anyway and I want to swap out this shirt.”
She smiled at me. A good start. Not everyone will smile.
“Sure, I’d love to talk,” she answered with much enthusiasm, mishearing me.
We shared a laugh about that, which felt good. She held my spot and we did chat briefly when I returned to the line. It passed the time and turned an otherwise ornery experience into a nice story.
At Trader Joe’s
Here’s another.
I went to Trader Joe’s last week in a funk. I tried to lift my spirits by pretending I was one of those chic Parisian women, tying an elegant scarf at my neck just so. The scarf was long and wide, in a lovely denim color, but I hardly ever wore it. I remember thinking as I left the house, “I should wear this scarf more often.”
Shopping through the aisles, I started to feel warm, my neck uncomfortable. I loosened the knot of the scarf and weighed the pros and cons of buying iced vanilla scones (I did not). In the chummus section, I untied it entirely, letting it hang around my neck. By the time I got in line to pay, I remembered why I hadn’t worn the scarf more often. It’s pretty, but way too heavy for me.
The cashier, a tall, regal woman, greeted me with a smile as she began to scan my avocadoes and kefir. She was friendly and chatty, and we made light conversation. In that moment, I decided that I’d like to give her my scarf. She had on funky earrings and they convinced me she would wear it well. Certainly better than I did. When my order was complete, I offered it to her.
“Would you like my scarf?”
“Are you serious? I’d love your scarf. It’s beautiful,” she replied. “Are you sure?”
I promised her I was. “It’s yours. Enjoy.” She folded it beneath the counter and I went home, feeling lighter all around, my funk nearly gone.
The following week, I was back at TJ’s and suddenly heard someone call out, “Are you the lady who gave me her scarf? I wore it last night and got so many compliments. Can I give you a hug?”
And I let her, and because it was TJs and everyone was busy sampling cold brew and buying chocolate-covered everything, no one noticed. I knew I’d given my scarf to the right person.
Learning to crochet
This story took place at summer camp when I was thirteen, not recently in a supermarket. And I’m not being hyperbolic when I say it changed my life.
I knew a lot of women, including the family members I loved best, who either knit or crocheted or both when I was growing up. I’d watch in a trance as they worked on a sweater or a hat or an afghan. Knitting had its sticks and its click-clacking. The crochet hook made its way silently. I wanted in on the magic of at least one of them. Yet no one offered to teach me. Not even my Grandma Sadye. And I never asked. I still cannot fathom the reasons why not.
But that summer when I was thirteen, a girl named Leah sat on the porch of the bunk next to mine crocheting a kippah for her brother. Entranced as usual by the sight of someone stitching, I walked over to see what she was making. I soon revealed that I’d always wanted to learn. With that, she reached into her tote, pulled out an extra hook and some yarn, and the rest is history. For me, nothing has ever been the same.
As my skill increased, crocheting became a part of me. It’s my craft and my hobby and my therapy. Although my husband will say we have way more afghans than we need, he also knows that asking me to stop would be like telling me not to breathe.
Back in the fall of 2018, I reached out to Leah, sending her a private message on social media. I wanted very much to thank her, to tell her what her small act of kindness, and her patience and foresight, have meant to me all these decades.
She wrote back this past Friday. It made my Shabbos. I’ve been smiling ever since.
In other news, a quick note on books
When I reconnected with Lori, an old school friend, she told me about a massive library book sale she attends annually. “You don’t want to miss it,” she assured me, though sadly, I have not been able to get there. But my husband Miro and I and my book-loving friend Sherri attended this year’s sale last weekend. It was day three of four, when all titles were fifty percent off. So much fun — and there was still plenty to choose from then. My haul included 25 books for $17.25. The .25 was what I paid for a copy of Leon Uris’ Mila 18, which Miro recently decided he would like to reread. No exciting conversations with strangers to report, however. We were all too focused on the books.
Not from my book sale stash, but I just read — and loved! — Maggie O’Farrell’s The Marriage Portrait, which is set in Italy in the 1550s. There are paintings, palazzos, and a forced marriage, all woven together by the author’s absolutely stunning, vivid prose. Be sure to read the historical notes at the back. One scene in the story moved me so deeply I cried from the intensity of it. I also loved her book Hamnet, which I highly recommend as well.
One more book thing. A bit of serendipity. I popped into the dollar store the other day in search of wrapping paper. On the book rack, I discovered Jean-Claude Grumberg’s Holocaust tale, The Most Precious of Cargoes. There was only one copy, so it felt like it was left there just for me. More about that when I have the chance to read it.
Lastly, a small request
If you are already a subscriber to Days of Rest, thank you! I’m delighted you are here. If you are not, then I’d be so grateful if you would sign up to be a part of this community.
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Thanks for being here.
Love,
Merri
So happy to have found your blog. The BIG moments in life are amazing, but it truly is all the little ones that actually make up life. Your writings testify to that!
Love the blog. Enjoy reading whatever you post. As one crafter to another I will teach you mine if you teach me yours. 💕