How Will You Know When You Find Them?
Right: Greg, Cheryl, Steve, Phyllis. Left: Jim, Jill, Larry, Mary
"A soul recognizing another." Donna Ashworth
Time spent with the people we love is time well spent, in my opinion. Recently, Larry and I joined some friends on the coast for a few days, absent of schedules and obligations, to renew our friendship and restore our souls. I know I'm ridiculously sappy, but that's how I feel—infinitely taken with these people and the way they enrich my life.
Honestly, I've come to believe certain people burrow into our hearts as if carpenter bees because we need each other. It wasn't an accident that our children attended the same schools, joined the same scout troops, or that we kept bumping into each other at the same social events. They come into your life for a reason. Trust it.
The eight of us, Greg, Phyllis, Jill, Steve, Mary, Jim, Larry, and I have not been together for almost a year. We've seen each other separately, but not at the same time.
We raised our kids together, traveled the world a bit, and spent every other weekend dining on each other's patios when we didn't have wrinkles or cell phones. It was quite convenient as we lived only a mile from each other for decades.
When the grandkids came along, we scattered like leaves in the wind, making new homes in closer proximity to our growing families. And oddly enough, now that we're all retired, it is ridiculously difficult to find a weekend for us all to come together.
I think that is so strange.
The thing about old friends is you don't have to prove your worth or try to be someone you are not when you're with them. It's easy. They all know who I am and have chosen to love me despite my many flaws and peculiarities. In fact, I think it is our imperfections that make us so interesting.
When we come together, we like to keep it simple. We do the things that fuel our hearts, like staying in our pajamas and enjoying our morning coffee well into the day. Then, we might take a long walk amongst the redwood trees before splitting sandwiches at a local brewery.
Then it's quiet time. Maybe someone is playing the guitar softly in the background, taking a long shower, walking along the beach, reading, writing, or napping. There is no judgment, no unnecessary chatter, and no need to defend your choices. It's as if a calm settles over the entire house before the storm. And that tempest, of course, is dinner.
Dinners are sacred affairs with this crew.
There are so many cooks in the kitchen that it feels as if we're playing instead of chopping, sauteing, searing, baking, and grilling our fare into a banquet. The table is set with care, we begin our meals in prayer, and the eating is never rushed or consumed without gratitude and joy. Like I said, it's a consecrated event, revered by all, the calories be damned. We're nurturing our souls.
Then we linger around that table for hours, discussing all the topics usually avoided at dinner parties, like politics, religion, and the nature of God. Our conversations are earnest, always respectful, and genuine. Oh, how we love to disagree, fight for our beliefs, and enjoy a heady discussion. We don't have time for bullshit. Who does?
Our second night brought us to a local Italian restaurant, Lago di Como, located on the edge of Capitola. Greg arranged a unique dining experience with the owner. Our cuisine was not on the menu. It was visualized and created just for us. The attention to detail did not go unnoticed. Our table was set in the corner of the restaurant. It felt private but not tucked away. The owner, his wife, the cook, and the servers all came by the table to say hello, give Greg and Phyllis a hug, and thank us for choosing to spend our evening at their establishment.
I'm not sure there are words to accurately describe this meal.
It was plentiful, flavorful, and presented with an artistic and flamboyant flair—unforgettable in every way. Our preference for keeping it simple was replaced with an exquisite culinary experience, one that will be remembered fondly and, no doubt, exaggerated over the years.
When we were finally able to push our heavily laden chairs away from the table, we headed home to sip a little wine and play a new game that Jill brought.
It's called Blank Slate.
Up to eight can play at the same time. How perfect is that? Each of us gets a small whiteboard and the dry-erase felt pen. Jill was our narrator, and she would call out a word like deep, kind, or small… and all of us would fill in the word that would naturally come next. Like deep breaths, kind words, or small wins. You earn up to three points if your word matches someone else's. I love it!
Bahaha. I am a writer. I play with words as if they were friends. I think I won all four games.
So late one evening, I told everyone a story about a mysterious wooden box I found on my doorstep one morning. It was not wrapped, and there was no card inside—just a small wooden box with a tile embedded in the lid featuring two swans. I could not figure out where it came from or who would just leave it on the doorstep.
I didn't have to noodle on it for long. I discovered that three hundred neighbors received mysterious boxes on their porches on the same night. All the boxes were different. It just so happened that a man who lived a few blocks away collected boxes as a hobby. When he passed away recently, his son decided to leave a box on his neighbors' porches as a remembrance.
I loved the box the minute I saw it. I realized it was not new, but I was so intrigued by its unexpected appearance. However, once I heard the story, it suddenly meant so much more.
Jill listened intently to my entire tale (which takes a lot of patience), and then she told me about a book she had just finished reading, The Measure by Nikki Erlick. Of course, I ordered the book. On the back cover, it says, "It seems like any other day. You wake up, pour a cup of coffee, and head out. But today, when you open your front door, waiting for you is a small wooden box. This box holds your fate inside: the answer to the exact number of years you will live.
You get to decide whether to open the box or not, keep the information tucked away, or live your life knowing exactly when it will end.
Did this give you goosebumps?
Me too.
What would you do?
Well, of course, that inspired a lively conversation. Most of us felt that we would not want to know our fate. We decided it wasn't sustainable to live as if you were dying every single day, and it was untenable to know when the end would come. Of course, the story goes deep into the ramifications on a societal level of knowing the exact time of your death. You think politics, marriage, and healthcare are complicated topics? Throw in some expiration dates and see what happens. What a brilliant exploration of the human capacity to know the future.
If I were writing that book, I would have included extensions. You know what I mean? Things that you do to prolong your life. I'm not talking about exercise, nutrition, or sleep. Those are obvious. It's all about the heart, and I believe the people we love can either stretch or diminish, strengthen or deplete, sustain or decrease our lives. For goodness sake, find your people, lengthen that string.
This is how our weekends always go. We lean into each other and discover new books to read, new games to play, new topics to discuss, and, of course, new foods to enjoy. I suppose one thing we did learn this weekend was not to let so much time pass between seeing each other.
Friendships are fragile, It's easy to drift apart and difficult to stay connected. We have to prioritize our time together because it's the glue that binds us. Friends are part of that finite string, if you will, they expand our capacity to thrive in this world, maybe even prolong our lives. I've come to believe that friendship has a soul of its own, one that shimmers as if it had the capacity to store its own energy, like the sun, a constant source of warmth and illumination when we take the time to revolve around it. I can not imagine going through this life without these people, okay, I can imagine it, but it would not have been nearly as sweeping, abundant, or sumptuous.
I'm abundantly grateful that you're Living in the Gap with me and that you took the time to read my post. I'd love nothing better than to connect with you in the comments.
Brian from Writing from the Heart posted the sweetest review of Grow Damn It. Check out the image of my book in his post. Clearly, it was read, pondered, and lovingly creased. Thank you, Brian, for your kind words and generous summary of my book. I'm over the moon!
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