The sound of a distant airplane fills me with a sense of mystery as the position of being in a giant airliner, neither here nor there, is wrapped in possibility. I have left my place of connection, home, and am headed for the unknown. A relationship is developed between the cosmos and me. The intermediary is the aircraft. Meanwhile, here on the ground, a longing sits in my soul as I watch the plane grow smaller in its steady rise.
I turn away and re-enter the here and now. Friendships begin that way, I muse. “Here” is that place of familiarity and comfort, while “there” is the thrill of the unknown. I remember a holiday party hosted by a neighbor a few years ago. My husband and I walked into a heavily decorated home alive with people carefully balancing wine glasses and charcuterie. The house, stuffed as it was with green and gold garlands looped around Christmas trees in every room, felt small. I nearly knocked off an angel from its perch among other Yuletide trinkets.
I wandered into a small, quiet space as I contorted my squashed form away from the crowd. Apparently, someone else had the same idea. I was struck by the woman’s strong, Boston accent. As a Connecticut Yankee myself it was easy to recognize. (At this point, I had no idea where my husband had wandered off to in that colorful maze.) The gregarious owner of that Northern New England twang was saying something interesting. I barged in and we both started to laugh. Words flew between us, as if we’d grown up in the same house! During the next hour or more we were deep in dialogue: family lore, social issues and faith stories. What started as engaged conversation at the party of a mutual friend, developed into a warm relationship of shared sympathies.
Just as connection between friends is something to be cherished, its opposite is something to be avoided. As my thoughts move into sensitive territory, I am hesitant to go further; but I will. This is my blog, after all.
We met in college and sang together in the chorale known for its rigor. I recall late nights in the dorm sharing a coffee rush as we talked long into the night, accompanied by those horrible Max pax, so popular during the 1970s. She was engaged then, and in a matter of months, I would be. We were both going into teaching in those years of 100 applicants per vacancy. The high cost of gas was not the only difficulty at that time. Young adults with graduate degrees were stocking shelves in supermarkets. We graduated, got married, and participated in each other’s weddings. Years that included a divorce, and moves from Manhattan to Phoenix, fell between us.
Forty or so years later, I called my “long lost” friend. I remember the excitement we both felt as we crammed the decades into a long conversation over the phone. At any rate, we made plans to meet fact-to-face. What followed were years of the four of us (including our husbands), visiting each other. Eventually, Neal and I moved to Tennessee; our friends made their move about three years later.
Old college dorm rats who talked for hours many nights, no longer engage the same way so many years later. Such was the case with us. We developed a reciprocal irritation. We had changed. I remember a line from Downton Abbey’s butler, Carson. “What would be the point of living if we didn’t let life change us?” Sadly, our relationship did not stand up to the test of our respective changes brought through marriage, children, career issues, et al.
These words of Paul come to mind: “…encourage one another and build each other up…” (1 Thessalonians 5:11).
As fallible as we are, the quoted verse above is often easier said than done. We are supposed to try, nevertheless.
