The Ties That Bind

Circles of friendship

An observation:

This past weekend, I went to the dry cleaners to drop off some shirts. It’s become a rarity for me in a world of increasingly informal wardrobes, working from home, and doing my own laundry. Still, sometimes an article of clothing needs professional attention. 

When I arrived, a man walked in just before me with a bag full of clothes. I must confess, I was a little frustrated wondering how long this would take. He was picking up as well as dropping off and I speculated on what careers today require this much dry cleaning. 

The customer was chatting with the man behind the counter, wishing him a happy new year. Standard small talk for early January. But I realized they were using first names — clearly a level of familiarity greater than infrequent encounters. 

The customer then asked the man behind the counter how his wife was doing. The tone was hushed and serious. I could tell this wasn’t a casual question. 

I heard “cancer” and “second chemo treatment” and “followed by radiation.” I heard about how it was nice to get some time off with the store closed over the holidays. I heard she was tolerating things well. If his wife was about the same age as her husband, she was still quite young. 

They wrapped up their transaction and wished each other well. I stepped up and was greeted kindly. 

“Two shirts? Next Saturday okay for pickup? Do you want them starched?”

The next day, I read David French’s column in The New York Times titled “A Terrible Phone Call and What Came Next.” It was about the phone call he and his wife Nancy got delivering the news that she has aggressive breast cancer. French writes hauntingly about how quickly their lives changed: 

It’s like the difference between peace and war. In peacetime, you can dream and plan. True joy may be elusive, but it seems like an attainable goal. In wartime, you dig deep. You fight. And the goal is not joy but survival itself.

French goes on to talk about the support and love he got from family, friends, and colleagues: 

Ever since the deep darkness of that November phone call, Nancy and I have experienced countless bursts of light shining through, each one coming through the love and care from other people. My son immediately decided to give up his final quarter of in-person college and take his last classes online, so that he could move across the country back home to help his mom. Our church small group immediately started organizing meals. My friends from college raked our leaves so that I could sit with Nancy in chemotherapy. My fantasy baseball league collected funds for wigs.

And with each act of kindness and expression of concern — including from colleagues here at The Times, who’ve demonstrated remarkable care and compassion — the darkness recedes further. Nothing is easy, and the fear is still real. But there is no comparison between the state of our hearts now and their state when we first received Nancy’s grim news.

The reason for our revival is rooted in a profound truth elegantly captured by an old Swedish proverb: “Shared joy is double joy. Shared sorrow is half sorrow.” I’ve heard that proverb many times. It was the refrain of a men’s prayer group that I belonged to for many years. But I’d never felt its truth so powerfully until November, when our sorrow was so deep and the love of our friends so profound.

French mentions something that I have been thinking a lot about myself as I age: The importance of systems of social support, especially friends. He noted the diagnosis of the U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy that we are a “lonely nation.” There has been no shortage of studies and articles that point to high levels of isolation and the danger they bring to our emotional, physical, and mental wellbeing. There seem to be many causes making matters worse — social media, fewer ties to religious, civic, or professional communities, the ways we live and work. And of course, there was the pandemic. 

I remember an article by Amanda Mull in The Atlantic published in January, 2021 subtitled, “There’s a reason you miss the people you didn’t even know that well.” It struck me because it resonated with something I was missing but couldn’t put into words. Mull explained the idea of the importance of our “weak ties,” a term coined by the Stanford sociologist Mark Granovetter in 1973 which “comprises acquaintances, people you see infrequently, and near strangers with whom you share some familiarity.”  

Mull continued:

They’re the people on the periphery of your life—the guy who’s always at the gym at the same time as you, the barista who starts making your usual order while you’re still at the back of the line, the co-worker from another department with whom you make small talk on the elevator. They’re also people you might have never directly met, but you share something important in common—you go to the same concerts, or live in the same neighborhood and frequent the same local businesses. You might not consider all of your weak ties friends, at least in the common use of the word, but they’re often people with whom you’re friendly. Most people are familiar with the idea of an inner circle; Granovetter posited that we also have an outer circle, vital to our social health in its own ways.

I have spent the last few days thinking about the different circles of friends and acquaintances that pass through our lives and how important they are. I still remember fondly a favorite waiter at a favorite diner where I brought my young kids for pancakes. He had a daughter and we would always share stories of being parents. I think about how fun it was to work in a newsroom and the conversations you could never schedule. Some of the best interactions were fueled by whom you happened to bump into entering the building.

I couldn’t help but think about David French and his wife’s world of support and wonder if, God forbid, my family was in a similar situation, who would give us support.

I think about how the pandemic collapsed our worlds inwards. I think about how I appreciate meeting someone new even more now than when I was younger. I also think about family and old friends who’ve become more distant because of busy lives, miles of separation, and the passage of time. Yet when we do meet up, it seems as if I just saw them yesterday.

I know I’m not alone in any of these ruminations. And I can’t help but wonder how much of the problems that plague our nation — our cynicism, antagonism, and suspicions — are being exacerbated by our isolation. 

But one of the wonderful things about the problems of isolation and loneliness is that small steps can make big differences. And they are within our reach. We can help others share joys and sorrows just by writing a letter, placing a call, or inviting someone out for a cup of coffee. We can ask people how they are doing and actually listen to the answer. We can put down our phones and speak face to face, with the kind of forthrightness that demands being present. We can relish all those in our inner and outer circles who make our lives more fulfilling.  

In the days since I went to the dry cleaners, I reached out to a number of people I hadn’t talked to in far too long. I am making a New Year's resolution to try to be a better communicator. I am also trying to pause a bit more to talk to people at the post office, the coffee shop, and during other instances of casual encounters. I apologize if the next time you are behind me in line at the dry cleaners it takes a few extra moments. 

If all of us just called or texted one person today who we thought could use a check in, the world would already be a better place. 

Isn’t that remarkable? 

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