Once, when I was trying to convince someone I liked them, I stumbled on a metaphor hidden between the cushions of my mind. But first:
I often wonder if the people who matter to me know how much they matter to me. I was worried my family thought I’d forgotten them, so I put together a book of all the things I remembered about being in a family, inspired by Joe Brainard’s I Remember, and gave it to them at Christmas.
Let’s say you ask someone what they like about their partner, and they don’t answer right away. Are you suspicious? Concerned? Bemused?
We don’t spend a lot of time thinking about why we like people. Even that sentence feels weird. We just know, right? And unless you’re a narcissist or Instagram influencer (WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE HAR DEE HAR), you probably don’t think much about why you like yourself, either.
And I guess what this newsletter presupposes is, maybe we should? What happens when we think a lot about questions for which everyone assumes we should have automatic answers?
For three years I’ve been adding to a list of things I like about my partner. It’s an exercise in constant surprise, like biting into a favourite chocolate bar and finding one day it tastes like grilled unagi.
150. That you love plants but also kill them.
97. You don't stop doing what you want to do just because other people often try and ruin that experience for you.
70. You frequently assemble a bite of what you're eating to let me try it (something I must learn to do for you).
50. Your hatred of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes.
12. On one of the hottest days of the year you wandered around Broadway Market looking for soup.
I’ve thought about her more than any other person, and I still don’t think I know all the things I like about her.
Right, so that metaphor. It has to do with stones. I was thinking about all the small ways we interact with each other, and here I mean you and [insert literally anyone], and why some people resonate with us more than others, and I kept thinking that those words and moments and feelings are like the pebbles kids collect when they go to the beach, a compulsion divorced from any purpose beyond the joy of having something shiny in your pocket.
Stones can seem commonplace. They are easy to overlook. And it is easy to imagine that they can be found anywhere, by anyone.
This is only true because we don't understand the value of our own stones. Stones are not what we do. Stones are who we are. Most people will only see the finished buildings. But a rare person, maybe one in a hundred or a thousand, will notice a stone.
When you value someone for who they are and not what they do for you, you gather together the most stones. And when you have that many stones, it doesn't matter what you build on top of it. It will hold.
It was in a letter about how relationships are like houses, which was also about how in those same relationships we often feel like we’re not enough.
But what you do have are your stones. And I promise you, promise you, that if there's one thing that I do, it's notice stones. And if you hand me one, I won't let it drop. This won't change because of one hard night, or one misunderstanding. Buried in the ground for so long, what could either of those do to a stone?
DO: Find one of your own stones. Polish it off. Place it somewhere you can see it.
DO: Uncover someone else’s stone. Weigh it in your hand. Tell the other person you’ve held it, and it’s safe.