that sky glowed all calico like phosphor in the sea

You haven't lived until you've had red wine from a tin cup by a campfire in an unseasonably warm November.

My favorite time on earth is the hour before everyone else wakes up on a camping trip.

I'm physically incapable of sleeping in, no matter what sort of night I had and camping trips are no exception. I tiptoe around, quietly hunting through bags to find coffee (usually waking people up in the process).

And then I sit. I know I'm not truly alone—surrounded by sleeping friends tucked into tents all around me—but I'm completely at peace, my mind finally at rest with no plans, no mental to do list prompting me to action.

A few days ago as I was standing on the metro escalator trying to finish a page, a woman barreled past me and knocked my gym bag off my shoulder. I balked at her silently as she turned—not to apologize, but to tell me I was taking up too much room with my bag (well, duh) and that she was in a hurry. I told her to have a good day as she flipped me off. My headphones were still in so I couldn't make out what she was saying anymore, but I could see she was angry and kept making a point to call back and shout things at me as she ran to the platform.

I put my nose back in my book and slowly reached the platform just as the train arrived... and we both got on.

How embarrassing for her. I thought to myself: What a horrible day she must be having. And how sad to walk around having outbursts at strangers.

I think the anonymity of cities makes these sorts of angry encounters acceptable and common—because we'd never talk that way to someone we actually knew.

But why does it seem everyone is walking around, seconds from exploding because the turnstile didn't open right away or Biden is going to the White House so we can't get to lunch on time.

I saw myself turning into that sort of person once and I didn't like it.

A lot of my time here is spent walking, surrounded by strangers (it's my primary mode of transportation) and it's so much happier when I make a point to be present for it and be kind.

Life isn't just the times with friends, the events, the holidays—it's those anonymous moments when you hold a door for a mom with a stroller or run after someone who dropped their Smarttrip. Life is a few hours spent alone, hunched over weeds in your front planter, not looking at your phone, letting dirt set in deep into your cuticles.

Pull out your earbuds. Enjoy those moments. They add up. And they matter.

Velveteen Lyndsey

A few things I can't share have happened in the past few weeks.

I hate announcing at the outset that I have secrets because it's sort of like saying to a friend "I need to tell you something... oh nevermind, I can't."

And everyone hates that girl.

So I'm sitting here drinking tea and trying to think of the best way to dance around what actually happened while still sharing what I've carried away from the wreckage.

Emily has christened me Velveteen Lyndsey. It's so funny to think of myself that way.

I've learned a lot from this.

Picture me falling apart while writing that sentence and taking a few minutes to compose myself and come back.

I think it's okay to lose your bearings every once in a while so long as you always work to get them back.

Because if you don't let the hurt and the fear in—if you don't cry or say the wrong thing to the wrong person—if you can really, truly, just put on your grown up suit every day and cheerfully carry on to work when bad things happen... you're a sociopath, right?

I can't believe I used to pride myself on how well I handled a crisis.

Like I deserved a red balloon for being able to cook meals while mourning a friend.

Sometimes everything falls apart. Sometimes dark things remind you that they exist and you learn that even though you thought you knew yourself and knew your limits and capacity for pain—you were absolutely wrong.

And that's okay.

Friendships are the best ships.

When I was a child it used to mortify me every time my mother and I would visit friends of hers and she would immediately set about cleaning their kitchens and straightening their living rooms.

No sooner than we'd knocked on the front door she'd quickly start pulling weeds out of the planters around their porch and henpecking me to pull their trash bins up from the street.

Once inside, instead of just sitting down and enjoying their company—or taking the temperature to see if they actually welcomed the help, she just assumed that's what they wanted.

She would dole out copious, well-intentioned advice on how to keep their plants alive and train their dogs to stop begging.

Because what busy mom wouldn't want someone to come help around the house?

My mom shows she cares about people by doing.

And I'm very much the same way. Which drives me insane.

It embarrassed me because while she was in a tornado of clearing mugs from coffee tables, I was quietly reading the subtle expressions on her friends' faces. Sometimes confusion, sometimes contempt—many times embarrassment, and very rarely gratefulness... even though they expressed sheepish, polite thanks.

My takeaway—apart from paying attention to people's needs, is that we can't love people the way we want to be loved. We have to figure out the way other people want to be loved and... you know, do that.

This is hard.

Figuring out how someone wants to be cared for (and how they communicate) is a challenge in every relationship.

At the end of the day, people want to spend time with and nurture relationships with people who make their lives better, who challenge them to be better and hold them accountable... but who are also actually enjoyable to be around and who are receptive to what they actually need.

Stop talking, stop doing, and pay attention.

Sometimes friends don't want advice when they come bearing life problems—they want to be heard.

And they want wine.

Always bring wine.