I can’t say it’s the table. Nor the cupboards. I do like my kitchen, but it’s more correct to say I like who I am in my kitchen. Be it bread or cookies, I like that I’m creating something that wasn’t there before. I like that my Elsie confidence allows me to add flour without measuring, and grin as if I’ve always known. And certainly that’s not the case. I never baked before coming to France. And now my house shoes have a permanent ring of flour in the cracks.
And isn’t it the way with friends:
“I really like who I am with you… I hope that doesn’t sound bad to say… I mean it more as a compliment to you, more of a “thank you” really. You free me to be this person who laughs and cries and feels and enjoys and loves. What a relief to be myself, without performing, or worrying… just being and becoming who I am… That’s some gift… I hope I’m returning it… because you know what, I really like who you are with me.”*
It’s not really in spite of, but because of, that we’re friends — this walking through beach and storm.
I could feel it, looking at her water damaged basement. What a mess to have gone through. But how quickly we moved to what it was going to be next. The finish. The decoration. And this was nothing really, compared to what we’ve been through together. The real storms we have actually weathered. Side by side. Braced in winds of heart-ache, and ever bent in waves of laughter.
I hope you can see it in the painting. I hope you live it in your real life.
People often ask me what is my favorite card. I can’t say for certain, but I do know the one that I send, sometimes just in my head, many times a day. Because no matter the occasion, joyous, sentimental, difficult, exciting, wonderful, painful, hopeful, I want to be there, because we’re friends.
Even when we’re countries apart, we feel the same things. We type our footsteps, and we walk together.
And I am all the better, perhaps the best of myself, because we’re friends.
Maybe it’s easier to see when we’re younger. Or maybe they do the work for us. Giving us uniforms. Gathering us together on buses and in classrooms. Cross-legged on floors in circles, whispering and giggling. They give us mascots and rally songs. And we are a part of something.
And then they send us off into the world. Hoping it was enough. Hoping they gave us the skills to recognize those around us. To connect without uniform.
And you know it when you do. As certain as if the rally song was playing behind you. Those friends, old and new, that know you as you become and become. As you change and grow. Those that walk beside you. In moments of pure joy. In the tenderness of sorrow. Through the uncertainties of success and loss. Always. All ways. Beside. Without hesitation, they join in the laughter, they answer each doubt, each question the same, “…because we’re friends.”
She took the time to shovel a path. A driveway that wasn’t hers. A long one. Just so we would have an easy time with our luggage. But I suppose that’s the way with some people — they not only welcome you, they make it so easy to be their friend. They don’t just allow you in, but they clear a path.
And that’s not everyone. Not in this world of walls and division. So how do we get over? Get through? Maybe it’s just one message at a time. And the echoing of.
I have new cards coming out soon. I’ve made them for decades now. I don’t run out of words. Maybe I just write the ones I’d like to hear myself. (Sometimes we shovel alone.) They are just tiny greetings. Small words of hope. Encouragement. Joy. And they won’t clear a path for everyone, but if you’re reading this, I hope you can feel it. Maybe walk the path of this day a little easier, by walking in the echo of the gifts I have been given.
I suppose we always want what we can’t have. So when she asked me if she could bring me anything from the US, I said red licorice. We don’t have it in France. Nor jelly beans. This shouldn’t be a surprise when you know that Hershey chocolate bars are in the exotic aisle of the grocery store, along with the peanut butter.
I kind of forgot about it. They had been here for hours, my American friends, before she brought out the gift bag. As she placed it in front of me, I saw the tip of red sticking out. Twizzlers! A two pound bag! I said, “If there are jelly beans in there as well, I might just pass out.” There were, and I didn’t. And then he said, “I brought some too. It’s my go-to travel candy.” He went to his suitcase and brought out at least another pound. “The bag is resealable,” he said, both thinking that seems highly unnecessary, and I knew I was with my tribe.
If we remembered the countless things that connect us, maybe our country, our countries, wouldn’t feel so divided.
My mother loved jelly beans. Red were her favorite (mine as well). Then yellow. Orange. Green sometimes. White in desperation. Purple, never. She gave purple to the birds and sometimes her mother in the back seat on long car journeys. Driving, I would never have to wonder or even ask what color she passed back to my grandma, be it jelly bean or Tootsie pop. Before her hand even reached over the seat, we would begin to laugh. It’s not like she didn’t know. Even Helen Keller would have seen the lack of randomness in candy choice. It didn’t take many miles for her to join in. Cupping her hands around the sugared treat, she said, “You know I like purple.” I’m still laughing.
What a thing it is to know someone. Without labels. Only by experience. To know my mother needed narrow shoes. My grandma, wide. Yet, their hands were surprisingly similar. Maybe no one “needs” three pounds of Twizzlers, but as the weight dwindles day by day, I am reminded where I come from. My joyful red heart beats wide open, never to be resealed.
It wasn’t just the jumping rope that I enjoyed, it was also the singing. On the playground of Washington Elementary each day before class we took turns twirling and jumping. The two twirlers would go around a few times. Set the pace, while the other girls stood in line behind the rope, matching the turns with hands raised like conductors. And the song would begin…”Vote vote vote for (insert name here)…” and she would jump in. “Knock knock (next girl in line) at the door…” and she would jump in. “She’s a better woman, she can do the wibble wobble, so we don’t need (first girl) anymore.” The first girl would jump out and the song began again. Whenever someone tripped or stopped the rope they had to become a twirler. I’m not going to say it was great theatre, but we thought it was quite a production! So we sang! We laughed! We jumped! Together!
Of course I had jump ropes at home. Singles as I called them. The length for one person. And it was fun to jump solo. The smooth garage floor added speed. I timed myself. Jumps per minute. Lengths of the stall. But one Saturday, walking through Ben Franklin to get to our car parked in back by the library, I saw them. Full length playground jump ropes. “Oh, please! I need one!” I begged my mom. “You have jump ropes,” she said. “Not the long one. I promise I’ll use it. I promise.” They were only a dollar, so it wasn’t a big fight.
My mom was about to pull in the garage. “No, wait!” I said, knowing I would need the full floor. She shrugged her shoulders and walked inside. I took off the tags. Tied one end to the garage door handle and walked it back. Making sure to clear the ceiling with each turn. I set the pace. The door complied. I began to sing. I “voted” myself in and kept jumping. Raced around when I, myself, “knocked at the door,” and became the better woman, never missing a beat.
The dust flew up from the cement floor — the floor that went unswept because I could always find something more important to do, like the wibble wobble for instance.
Of course I could have just jumped using the solo rope, but it felt good to be connected, even when I was alone. I feel like these words that I type each morning do the same thing. Sending out little songs. Little invites. For us to be connected. Even with those who have long stopped turning, but with whom we continue to sing and to jump and to laugh! Together!
We learned pretty early on the power of words. We began writing letters to each other during our summer vacations from grade school. Living in the same town, armed with banana seat bikes and endless sunny days, we easily rode to each other’s houses, to the beach, to main street in downtown Alexandria, but still we felt the need to connect.
This gift that we had been given in the first grade strengthened with each letter written. Straight from the playbook, I wrote thank yous for birthday parties. Recaps of “events” attended and unattended. Who did what, said what, to whom. Wrote in solidarity of mutual enemies — never capitalizing their names because as Mrs. Bergstrom had stated, we capitalize the proper nouns to show their importance. We capitalized our friends’ names.
It would be easy to say that we had more time then. And as hard as it is for me to admit, we have the same amount of time. Always have. Always will. It’s just how we choose to fill it. I want to get better in my choices. Capitalize on the goodness. Forget the things that aren’t really all that important — the things that don’t deserve my, our, full attention. Focus on the “thank-you”s. The “it’s great to be your friend”s. Knowing that it is worth the repeat. The writing down. The chronicling. How spectacular it is to have support. To have encouragement. To have combined laughter. To have shared experience. To have friends!
I’m writing to you this morning. Every morning. It’s great to be your Friend!
Schools had many names for it — we called it bombardment — and indeed it was by definition “a continuous attack.” The rules were fairly simple.Two teams separated by the line in the middle of the gym. A ton of red rubber balls — thrown at each other until no one was left standing. I don’t know if it was a lesson in aggression or empathy, or just to work off our excess energy before the afternoon Humanities courses. I loved sports, but I never liked this game. To win, (and I’m not even sure what “winning” was) you had to dish it out a lot harder than you received it. And maybe it’s silly, but I didn’t like the sound of rubber hitting flesh. Especially by my own hand. So I threw it out in the way I wanted to receive it. Was it winning? Not by definition, but I could sit next to the girl in the following class and know it wasn’t me that left the “Voit” mark on her thigh.
It’s time for me to make new greeting cards. In today’s world of speed and technology, I like being a part of the act of kindness that still takes a slow hand. A card picked. A message written. An envelope addressed. A stamp adhered. Sealed. Posted. Sent. And when creating the messages on the cards, I think of not only what I’d like to say, but what I’d like to hear. (I hope I remember that in my daily conversations.) Before the new card is even printed, I have sent it in my heart and mind, many times.
This one came easily — this “…because we’re friends.” And I know I’ve been blessed with the kindness of friendship — a bombardment really. Wishing the same for all, this is what I’m throwing out there — this friendship, as we walk the hallway on our way to Humanities.
It’s no secret that I love to go to museums. To see beautiful things, that’s obvious. Of course there is pleasure in that. But there’s more. So much more. Standing in front of a painting is like being in a time capsule. You are transported to the date of creation. You are within the movement of the hands and heart of the artist. You walk in their story. Be it pleasure or pain, calm or turbulent, you are there. They are there. With you. For you. Allowing you the comfort to bring your own story to life.
Yesterday I found the pin that my friend bought for me at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. It reads, “Support your local museum.” Holding it in my hand, it occurred to me that friendship, true friendship, is like a museum. It holds all of your stories. Your most celebrated moments in the brightest of colors. Your deepest thoughts in dark, subtle tones. Your aspirations and dreams. Your fears and triumphs. All without saying a word. The only requirement is simply to walk within it.
So I wear the pin proudly, and encourage us all to do the same. Support those beautiful and glorious works of friendship. The art and heart of our living. I give thanks to them, for them, every day.
It is clearly chained off. Marked — Don’t cross the fence. Don’t touch. Don’t walk here. He lifted one young girl over the chain. The other daughter followed. He, on his cell phone, stepped over the chain. Past the warnings. Over roots and survival. Stomping on future growth. We couldn’t believe our eyes. We were getting in our car, just after visiting The Friendship Oak. I started waving at them to get out. Couldn’t they read? Didn’t they care at all? It has survived over 500 years, this tree. Hurricanes at their worst. Katrina even. I’m not so certain it can handle stupidity. He said, “We’re just passing through…” The one and only thing they asked us not to do.
But we do that, don’t we… Not only to nature, but to each other. So oblivious to the signs. How easily we can trample over one another. “It was just a joke.” “I didn’t mean it.” “I was just passing through…”
I know I’m guilty. I want to do better. I don’t want to walk over someone’s hopes. Someone’s dreams. Someone’’s future growth. Please let me be the one to admire. To offer encouragement. Let me see the signs, even when they aren’t so clearly marked. What if we did that for each other? Gave everyone a chance to keep growing. Be a little more friendly. Maybe, we could even gift to ourselves. (My heart smiles of green.)
