We're So Important To Each Other, We're Imperative

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I still remember a conversation I had with someone long ago. I’d casually stated in passing that we’re an animal, and this roused my friend. “We’re not an animal!” He was shocked I’d say such a thing. I was shocked that he was shocked. How was it possible someone didn’t know this? Or maybe I didn’t understand what he meant.

I thought logic might help. “Which one are we — animal, vegetable, or mineral? There aren’t other options out there.” (This isn’t quite true — there are bacteria and fungi, too— but stay with me here.)

My friend paused for a moment. “Yeah, but we’re not an animal animal. We’re special, nothing like an animal.”

Some days, oh how I wish that were true. Especially these days when the world seems more chaotic by the week.

My friend was touching on something, though — namely that we are special among animals, and that’s very true.

Yet, we’re dual in our special way. We’re brilliant and unseeing. This duality is reflected in both our capacity to love and to hate, or to care and to disregard. That hating side, it’s an abject horror. That loving side, it’s a marvel. It’s something to behold every time. Let’s imagine the latter.

The other day my coaching pal, Angela, rang my phone. I saw her name pop up in my caller ID. I haven’t talked to her in years, not since we were in a positive intelligence program together. My worrier kicked in and I wondered if something was wrong, but there wasn’t. Instead, she “just had to pick up the phone and tell me in person how much my little weekly blog meant to her.”

This was the marvel in us playing out in front of me. My heart felt something like gratitude except it was flying at ten thousand feet. It soared. I was so touched. I told her that our buddy, Phil, had just said the same thing to me in a Christmas card. My heart was brimming because of the beautiful love these two showed me.

It was simple what they did — a call, a card — but it compelled me to write this story.

We are beautiful animals.

There’s another person. Her name is Jackie, and she writes about what it’s been like to process her grief from the death of her teenage daughter to cancer seven years ago. My mind melts when I think about what her writing efforts have done for me.

I discovered her stories not too long ago and read each one that comes forth. Why? Because she is single-handedly teaching me it’s possible to survive the death of your child. All these years — twenty-five since my first son was born — I’ve been certain I’d never emerge from such a scenario. It has been such a fear of mine that I play it out sometimes to see if by any chance my view has changed, that I’d be able to move on from this universal, deep-seated fear. The answer has always been “no.”

Except lately.

Since I started to read her heroic, generous accounts, I’ve considered, imagined, and grown the possibility inside me that I would be able to survive, and that I’d even be able to do something as generous as she’s doing for others. Somehow, in some way, because this person models such courage, I have a new window into what it means to be human.

We are exquisite animals.

I have a list of dear friends who write to me — on paper, in emails, online, in texts — to check in on me, say hello, or tell me that they appreciate me in some small way. This reaching out is a simple act, but it takes effort, and it changes me for the better. These folks show me what kindness and thoughtfulness look like. They show me how we prop each other up. They extend their heart and bones to reach another person just for the sake of planting seeds of good. This is how a better garden grows.

We are vibrant, lush animals.

Then there are the creative architects of better options. My cousin invented and installed a special room at the back of her church where parents can bring their neurodiverse kids, for whom sitting still and quiet for an hour of mass is an outdated ask. Such an effort can change lives.

There are a few comic artists I know whose autobiographical work portrays life with various challenges so others can learn to accept themselves, while the rest of the world can begin to understand. There are always folks who create new solutions to local problems to help others in need. This is our brilliance put to good use.

We are visionary, intricate animals.

There are my coaching clients who show up week after week, vulnerable and intentional because they are serious about discovering more fruitful ways to do the components of life. Occasionally, I’ll tell them how much our conversations have transformed me. They think I’m kidding or mistaken. Then I explain how it could be true.

When you sit across from someone and witness them grapple with doubt, confusion, and yearning while attempting to construct a usable method for reaching a goal — you walk away with awe. You walk away with faith in humanity. People are remarkably genuine when they have the space to be, and they discover doors to themselves that ultimately, in the long run, lead to giving back. Giving back was never the goal, but it’s a byproduct that, in a nutshell, makes the world go round.

We are inspirational animals.

When my dad passed almost two years ago, the process of his passing coupled with the funeral took a couple of weeks. During that time, my sister’s close group of friends took turns to make or buy dinner for our big group, night after night — huge dinners, with all the fixings, set up for us on my mom’s kitchen island with love.

I know folks all over the world do this for their inner circle — or their outer circle, or for strangers. And that’s my point. Look at us. We have the heart of an orchestral sunrise. We’re dutiful like the moon. Our imagination dives to the depths of the sea and soars to the heavens.

This past Saturday was the International Holocaust Remembrance Day. I saw mention of it online. It immediately brought back memories of the time I visited Auschwitz in Poland and then couldn’t eat for days because the museum was that horrific. Writing this, I feel nauseous.

Sometimes we’re a terrifying animal, a sorry state of affairs, a shambles. We’re also the opposite. We try to solve for the former and revel in the latter. We’re unique in this way.

I’m like everyone else. I spend a percentage of my time crying with sorrow, fuming with anger, and cowering with fear. Then you, my delicate animal, reach out and say something quiet and kind, and I brush myself off and feel grateful to be a human alongside you. You inspire me.

You’re a faithful, kindhearted, lovely animal.

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Have a nice week, friends. :-)