I have a dear friend whom I have visited twice a week for about 15 years. These visits have always been virtual. I couldn’t pick her out of a lineup. She is very circumspect about her personal life, so I don’t even know her real name, where she lives or works, or even her favorite color. She’s not one to express her opinions. She’s much more experiential. But you can learn a lot from experiences.
By contrast, I tend to overshare. It isn’t hard to find me. My life is an open book. On bad days, I wonder why my friend feels that I can’t be trusted after all these years. It hurts. But on good days, I realize that her friendship is a unique gift.
Our camaraderie is not burdened with all the superficial stuff that tends to distract people and cause them to be biased about those whom they encounter. What my friend reveals to me is a pure, distilled authenticity. I feel I do know her, and I do value her friendship a great deal.
My friend always comes from a place of respect, no matter whom she encounters. She doesn’t use harsh words, and yet I’m fairly sure I understand her politics and preferences. She maintains a calm demeanor, and she has a wry humor that reflects a deep intelligence and a creative way of expressing herself. She can speak volumes without saying a word, and yet I always have the feeling that there are untapped depths that she reveals to no one.
I suspect that my personal footprint upon this earth is broader, perhaps, but much more shallow. She’s deep. She’s also entirely too modest. She mostly listens while I blather on. She bears witness to my self-absorption, and yet never judges. Because I sometimes feel the need to fill in the silences between us, I tend to dredge up memories that have been stored away for decades.
We share a love of learning, and a curiosity about unusual information that we come across, seemingly at random. She has often inspired blog posts for me. I’m grateful for that inspiration because sometimes I sit down to write and the flame of creativity refuses to be kindled.
She has been there through a lot of my rough patches, and has watched me struggle to understand myself. She is not one to give advice, which can be maddening for me, but she often manages to tease solutions out of my brain. To this day I’m not sure how she does it.
I suspect I’ve been present for some of her rough patches as well, but of course I never know the exact details. But occasionally she expresses gratitude for some support that I didn’t even know I had supplied. At times like those I feel as if I’ve won the lottery. She’s going through a very rough patch right now, and it breaks my heart, because I feel helpless to offer any comfort at all in this particular situation.
She will probably squirm when she reads all this. But I felt it was high time I told her how grateful I am for her friendship. She is truly a precious gift.
Whenever I log in, she’ll offer to share something she happens to be eating or drinking, even though in reality we will probably never meet face to face. But the offer makes me feel like I have been welcomed into her home. She is a gracious host.
Recently, when I paid her a virtual visit, she said, “There’s croissants…” I happen to love croissants. And just like that, I had a flash of a precious memory I hadn’t thought of in 30 years. That anecdote is below. So thank you, as always, M, for the inspiration.
A Croissant Story When I was about 19, I went to Paris with my oldest sister. At one point, we were riding on a city bus, eating croissants from a bag. Reveling in the atmosphere, my sister said, “Isn’t this perfect?” Me, being me, replied, “Well, it would be, except these croissants are stale.” My sister was horrified at my response (as was quite often the case). She said, “No, they’re not! We just bought them from a French bakery!” There was a man sitting in front of us, and I could tell that he was listening to our conversation. I got the impression that he was a local, not a tourist, so I offered him one of our croissants. He accepted my offer, and took one bite of the yeasty, moon-shaped roll. Then he turned around and looked at my sister. He said, “She’s right. These are stale.” I wanted to kiss him. It was a rare occasion when someone stuck up for me in the presence of my formidable sibling. She, by contrast, was stunned into silence, and, I suspect, greatly irritated by what she saw as a violation of her perfect French fantasy. But I love that the croissants were stale. I was thrilled that we were experiencing the real Paris, warts and all. If the croissants had been fresh, my memory of that moment wouldn’t have been nearly as vivid. I can close my eyes and see every detail of that experience. I know what we were wearing. I can feel the seat bouncing beneath me. I remember every person walking down the sidewalk. It’s as if I’m young again, and sitting on that bus with my indignant sister, experiencing a rare moment of triumph while eating stale croissants, as we watched the Parisians going about their business on the Champs-Élysées on a typical summer morning. My sister lived for perfection, and therefore she was only satisfied when she was in denial. But a little bit of imperfection can make a memory indelible. I live for those imperfections. What a gift they can be!
Travel vicariously through this blog. And while you’re at it, check out my book! http://amzn.to/2mlPVh5
Leave a Reply