Collective Joy

 "It was an overwhelming sense of joy and solidarity and diversity and community and a good amount of crying and a lot of contact high." - Jon Stewart on NYC celebration after Knicks win

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Living his best sports-fan life in New York City, our older son spent Saturday night in a Financial District bar watching the Knicks win the NBA title for the first time in 53 years, then Tuesday afternoon cheering France to a 3-1 World Cup victory. From shouts of "Knicks in Five!" to "Allez le bleu," he's ping-ponged from one joyous, dance-filled mosh pit to another. The rest of us live vicariously through his videos and photos. One clip lurches from one exuberant group of patrons to another—all jumping, cheering, sloshing their expensive alcohol right out of their cups.

Watching the outdoor Knicks watch parties across the five boroughs filled my heart and made me cry. How often do we witness collective joy that transcends socioeconomic, racial, and gender lines? New York City survived 9-11, was hardest-hit by the pandemic, seems ground zero for big city struggles. To see its people embrace a common victory lifted something in me. The last Knicks championship happened the day after my younger brother was born. I joked with Mom yesterday that Dad was home supposedly watching me while she was in labor, but really watching the Knicks game on TV.

I crashed briefly after realizing basketball was finished, only to realize a wave of near-manic religiosity from World Cup fans had crashed on our shores. Scottish supporters took over Boston Common with bagpipers marching to Fenway. French crowds thronged Central Park. Norwegians "rowed" their way up escalators. Argentine fans partied in Kansas City. Surreal. Joyful. A life-long sports fan, I'm thrilled that so many came to our country to share their passion with us.

I know sports won't fix inflation or water security or the weight of real struggle. But collective joy—the kind that spills across neighborhoods and unites strangers from different countries and backgrounds—that matters too. It's practice. It's proof we're capable of standing together and wanting something.

Miracles in Manhattan

After last week's post about hiding in tales of 19th century England, I committed further by downloading Season 1 of Victoria on Netflix. The caprices and romances of the young queen captivated me on the flight to New York City, where the whole family converged at William's Brooklyn apartment. From hiding in the past, I dove into living minute-by-minute on a non-stop family weekend—savoring both William's curated tours and the spontaneous, serendipitous moments no one could plan.

The magic started on the subway to the Financial District Friday evening when I received an out-of-the-blue text from my college roommate Laura, who lives on Long Island and works in the city. We text only a few times each year, so her message arriving as we rattled toward Manhattan felt like the universe orchestrating a reunion. We made plans to meet the next day.

Saturday unfolded like a series of small miracles:

• Gluten-free bagels that actually tasted like bagels (a benefit only NYC can deliver)
• Laura appearing in Central Park, strolling with us through the park environs and down to midtown, catching up on our families —a sunny, windy, joyful reunion that shimmered with unexpected grace
• An indoor table at the all-gluten-free Italian restaurant where we had dinner reservations (we were supposed to be outside in the cold)
• The restaurant being cash-only, all of us subtly ransacking purses and wallets, then my discovery of a gift from Mom I'd forgotten to deposit—dinner procured through Nana's generosity
• Exiting the restaurant at the appointed time, catching the subway to Broadway, watching a superb production of Hamilton (aside from the young woman in front of William receiving a breakup text in Act Two, then departing with her crew immediately after—we were riveted)

A thirteen-hour day that ranked among our most magical travel days ever.

Sunday brought William down with a cold, though he heroically accompanied us first to brunch at Kellogg's Diner where we reunited with my cousin Justin (for the first time in six years) over crisp bacon and New York recommendations, then to Domino Park and lastly over to MoMA. We started on the museum's fifth floor and found ourselves floored by what hung there: Monet, Dalí, Picasso, Picabia, O'Keeffe, Pollock, Van Gogh. The Starry Night waited for us—we hadn't known it would be there—and we stood before it in grateful awe, nudging one another and celebrating our luck in whispers.

At day's end we learned via text that our flight was canceled. Brief panic ensued as everyone scrambled to reconfigure Monday schedules. Daniel flew into terror over missing a midterm exam and had to embark on a solo thrifting mission to reclaim his equilibrium. We rallied to an airport hotel and said goodbye to William, hoping he'd heal quickly and visit soon.

The weekend reminded me that the best moments can't be scripted—they arrive as gifts. A text from an old friend. Cash discovered at exactly the right moment. Art that stops your breath. Even a canceled flight becomes part of the story, part of what makes a weekend not just good, but magical. Sometimes hiding in Victorian England is exactly what you need, and sometimes you need to be thrust into the chaotic present, surrounded by the people you love, open to whatever grace the universe decides to deliver.

Finally, An Empty Suitcase!

Last night I finally unpacked my weathered blue overhead bag and ancient flowered toiletry case—the first time they'd seen the inside of a closet since July 12. The worn zippers and faded fabric tell stories of a whirlwind month that began with Rob, Aden, William and me hiking from Maroon Bells to Crested Butte through the wildflowers. Since that golden weekend, I've ricocheted between British Columbia's family gatherings, California's blazing pool decks, New York's relentless sidewalks (helping William launch his adult life), and finally Colorado's towering peaks where Aden and I conquered another fourteener. I haven't moved through the world with such velocity since my consulting days—before marriage, long before children—and the freedom tastes intoxicating.

The six scorching days in Clovis, shuttling teenage swimmers between hotel, pool, and restaurant, exceeded every expectation. I videotaped races and award ceremonies, recorded splits, and cheered until my voice cracked. Working alongside athletes I barely knew before, I felt relationships kindling in the chlorinated air—trust building one encouraging word at a time. Leaving my family just one day after our Canadian return to coach other wonderful kids was wrenching, especially with William's departure looming. Yet I needed to nurture this coaching path, to cultivate something sustaining for the approaching empty nest years.

After a frantic few days moving William from Boulder, we boarded our direct flight to LaGuardia with three bulging suitcases. Clear skies welcomed us to Brooklyn, where his loft bedroom and experienced roommates offered William the perfect launching pad. We split our days between acquiring necessities at the delightfully named "Amazing Savings" and wandering Manhattan's transformed landscape. Thirty years has elapsed since my last visit, and the city stretched endlessly across my vision—a glittering testament to human ambition, architectural audacity and the emotional strength to rebuild after 9/11.

Saturday brought ten miles of walking through Central Park's verdant paths, past the financial district's gleaming towers, into Hudson Yards where William's office will soon relocate. The reclaimed Highline carried us above the streets while voices in Spanish, Italian, Polish, and Yiddish wove a linguistic tapestry around us—English surprisingly rare among the international throngs. Sunday delivered gluten-free crepes and coffee before we ventured via Metro to Wall Street's canyon of commerce, Battery Park's harbor views, the memorials at the North and South Towers, and finally the best everything bagel I've tasted in decades at Modern Bread and Bakery.

Saying goodbye to William after Sunday dinner proved predictably devastating—tears soaking my pillow as I mourned this latest milestone in our family's evolution. Yet beneath the heartache pulses profound gratitude for these accumulated adventures, for the energy and courage to seize each opportunity. I can still recall being paralyzed by autoimmune illness, too anxious to drive, too overwhelmed to navigate a simple grocery store. This current freedom to move through the world—to chase summer across states and seasons—feels like grace beyond my wildest imagination. As the children conquer new territories I will have even more good reasons to explore and be amazed.