Warmed by tenderness

When winter is winter-ing

This past fall, I was navigating a narrow sidewalk with four children and a stroller in the pouring rain. An elderly woman, trying to get past us, threw her arms up in the air with obvious contempt. Painfully aware of how much space we were inconveniently occupying, I quickly apologized for crowding the sidewalk (which was especially narrow as it was trash day). She just shook her head with disapproval, silently ducking into her apartment.

I now, more rationally, think to myself how out of line her behavior was. We only blocked the sidewalk for a moment while handing my daughter’s friend back to her mother after a long day of school. It simply wasn’t that big of a deal.

But, the imprint of her obvious irritation and my own subsequent embarrassment is still seared into my memory. I’ve always been thoughtful about how much space our crew requires, particularly on a narrow New York City sidewalk. It’s not as though I enjoy crowding other pedestrians.

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This winter has brought nearly twice as much snow than a normal season in New York. So, like many parents, when I heard of another snowstorm last week (especially as I was supposed to be away in Florida this past weekend), I was filled with dread. The storm promised more time inside, the continuation of frigid temperatures, and annoyingly, sidewalks further narrowed due to the snow.

*As context for anyone outside the tri-state area, the recent blizzard in New York was historic–the single storm brought more snow to the city (some areas of Staten Island saw 29 inches) than New York often receives in an entire season (22.9 is the seasonal average).*

Shortly after the snowstorm, I was navigating through Central Park, where many sidewalks were still covered in slush, on the way to an appointment when this image on the Great Lawn momentarily took my breath away:

A massive snow sculpture of a mama bear nuzzling her baby polar bear, with other baby bears littered around them. ‘Build a bear’ had come alive in Central Park.

The sheer size of the mother bear, maybe triple the size of an actual, full grown polar bear, was striking, but the clear tenderness communicated in the nuzzled position of the two bears, along with a family around them, is what stopped me in my tracks.

Tenderness.

Someone had spent a substantial amount of time and physical labor building this. Presumably not for money or fame, but for passersby to enjoy. Surely it had required significant effort: long hours in the cold, bent over and on hands and knees, frequent interruptions children wanting to help. The work was laborious, intense, and scientifically, it was only going to be a matter of time before the artist’s work melted.

But it was for these same reasons that the sculpture communicated such tenderness. The artist, knowing the art would melt, aware it would not bring money or fame, still sculpted a scene of tenderness for New Yorkers to enjoy. The surprise and the anonymity of it shook me. The city felt magical for a moment.

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Same week, same storm, different day, I was walking home and a pride of seventh grade boys were haggling one another with snow balls on my (still narrow) sidewalk. They’d ventured up a couple private stoops to collect snow and were pelting one another from strategic points.

Sweet as the moment was, I nonetheless wanted to avoid receiving a snowball to my face, so I requested immunity from the snowball fight by yelling “innocent bystander!”

Like a reflex, the boys immediately dropped their snowballs, even alerting one another “You guys–innocent bystander! Innocent bystander. Wait a minute!”

It was a small thing, the type any decent boy should probably do, but there was a sweetness in it. Even as they were lost in boyhood, they were quick to change pace for an anonymous mother just trying to get home.

Tenderness.

The snow and the subsequently crowded sidewalks have reminded me that the city has a tenderness that I often forget. More importantly, we all have a desperate need for tenderness inside of us.

Someone once told me anger is only a secondary emotion–it’s one that shows up as a result of something else–grief, hurt, fear. Many of those core, animalistic emotions may be initially tied to survival. But anger comes from those things, not alongside them. We are hurt, so we get angry.

Unlike fear, which notifies us of our weaknesses, anger is so incredibly satisfying because it makes us feel powerful. It gives us a sense, however faulty, of control. I think this is also why it can feel so addicting.

Is tenderness the antidote to anger? Maybe. To the irritated woman who threw her hands up in the air in frustration because we momentarily blocked the sidewalk? It certainly wouldn’t hurt.

Persistent tenderness, unexpected and full of grace, can woo us out of our stupor of anger, probably better than reason can. I was not in an angry state of mind when I saw the polar bear or when the boys cordially dropped their snow balls, relinquishing their game for a moment, for me, an anonymous passerby. But it did remind me to snuggle my children a little longer, to linger in the tender places that are all too often swept away in the busyness of life. Maybe mostly, it inspired me be gracious with the store clerk who was rude.

I was walking our three children home the other day and we were (again) rudely crowding the entire sidewalk. I try to coach them on staying to one side, but between the snow and a stroller and the lack of coordination that comes with being a three year old, quite frankly, sometimes we’re just going to take up space. An elderly man waved us by without saying a word and I reflexively apologized. “No, no, please, go ahead” he said patiently “you don’t need to apologize at all”, and my eyes brimmed with tears. He was right. We were doing our best. I didn’t need to apologize for these tiny people learning how much space they’re allowed to take up.

I know not every problem can be solved by tenderness. Parenting makes this glaringly obvious. We need courage and bravery and to have the spines to stand up for those who cannot speak for themselves.

But who among us doesn’t need to be stopped in her tracks by the tenderness of a mother bear nuzzling her cub? Of teenage adolescents, joyfully lost in their boyhood, respectfully dropping their snow balls? Of a kind older man graciously reminding us “You don’t need to apologize” when we’re just trying to get our children safely home?

At least as a mother, who is constantly putting out fires for tiny bodies who do not yet have the emotional wherewithal to manage many grievances themselves, that tenderness, however seemingly small, speaks volumes.

In a world where controversy and anger seem to get all the limelight, we’re in greater need now than ever of the surprise of a mama polar bear peacefully nuzzling her cub in the center of Central Park. Such a picture hopefully reminds us we’re all more like that baby bear than we sometimes remember.

The snow and the bears will surely melt, but may their tenderness be remembered.