You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘relationships’ tag.

My friend Maria, who hails from Taiwan, tells me that in her culture it is believed that friends are souls who find one another, lifetime after lifetime. Though I’m not a fan of reincarnation (it sounds terribly tiring), I like the sound of this conjecture. After Ruth opined that she thought the three of us really ought to get tattoos so that we can find one another in the next life, it all clicked together.

The sky appears daunting, swarming
as it is with bright and twinkling things,
still: We will find each other,
unerringly, though lifetimes,
on this or any astral plane.
We will coalesce into constellation—
The Sisters, they will call us, or something Latinate —
we will laugh, knowing we are we, not stars but souls,
bound by something more grave than gravity,
beats of light that blink out occasionally,
only to reappear, newborn but ancient,
in yet another freckled sky.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I followed through on some of the impulses that flit through my mind. For instance, on the way home from the vet this morning (on foot; the vet’s office is just up the block), I thought strongly about sitting down on the sidewalk and crying. Would anyone have noticed? I did pass the mail carrier on the way. Surely he would have looked askance at me. Then again, I’ve walked home from the vet in tears before, and no one gave me a second look. And I don’t exactly live in a remote enclave — along with the vet’s office, the street holds a police station, fire station, Girl Scout headquarters (great for receiving one’s cookies before everyone else does), two dentists’ offices, a park and a bus stop. There are people about, believe me. But here’s the rub: Each one of us is so attuned to our own self-doubts, miseries, anxieties and pleasures that we often have no space in our vision or hearts for anyone else’s.

Maybe that’s a good thing. It’s hard enough to navigate one’s own life without taking on the baggage of others. Our own suitcases are plenty heavy, thank you. I, for instance, did not ask the mail carrier how his day was going. Maybe he was up all night with a sick baby. Maybe his mother is in the hospital. How would I know? I was stuck in my own woes. But we did exchange a smile, at least. And here’s the thing — I meant it. I like people generally, and hope our mailman has a nice day. And he, at least in that moment, felt the same way about me.

Maybe if I turned my vision outward more often, I would find that most of us are struggling with one thing or another, but are willing to reach out with positivity anyway. We are never as alone as we think we are. God made us responsive to one another from the get-go: Babies seek out human faces, quickly learning to smile so as to elicit a response should hunger, thirst or other need occur. It is instinctive behavior. Perhaps we are all just infants, whatever our age, looking for someone to respond to our smile, just in case we should ever need them down the line. Perhaps that’s what a smile is — a social cue passed from one to another to admit both our own inherent weakness and transmit the possibility of solidarity. I need you, and you need me. We agree, yes?

I won’t tell you to smile (though your heart is aching), or to let a smile be your umbrella: No one likes being told to feel something he or she does not feel. But know this — a smile is a gift, and you never know how much it might mean to someone else until you give it. In the uptick of facial muscles lies the hand of God. Pass it on.

I’m a serial murderer…of plants; my thumb more black than green. My singular success has been with weeds, which grow like, well, you know. But other, more personal gardens require tending, too — the care and feeding of relationships, for instance. I haven’t been terribly successful with this form of gardening, either, but I’m getting better. I hope.

Relationships need to be nurtured. I’ve lived on the assumption that, if we were once friends, even if you don’t hear from me over long periods of time, you understand that I still consider us friends. I think of you more often than you know. My silence holds nothing but sincere good feelings. But silence can be misconstrued. People often need more “upkeep” than I’m prepared to give, so used am I to living in silence and solitariness. Rifts may result. I regret this.

My best friend Susan is a marvelous caretaker of relationships. She is the queen of thank-you notes. She remembers to send you recipes for food you’ve enjoyed that she prepared. She writes letters — actual, bona fide letters — in a lovely, artistic hand. (When we both worked together in the Art Department of an educational company, Susan was the go-to gal for any photograph that required beautiful handwriting.) When you are sick, she will make you soup. Or an apple pie, artfully decorated with leaf cutouts.

Knowing Susan has made me a better caretaker of my own garden of relationships. (E-mail has been a boon, too, I’ll admit.) She is going through a difficult time right now, so difficult, in fact, that she has no time to write or call. We pepper one another with brief e-mails, mine mostly discussing how I’ve been praying for her, but we’ve not had time for one of our marathon long-distance chats. (She lives in California; I now live in Kansas.) Still, I feel her with me every time I remember to ask after another person’s welfare, or pray for their intentions. Susan is thoughtful. What a beautiful gift to bring to the world!

How is your social garden faring? Is it weed-choked from long neglect? Bursting with color and life? Take some time today to reach out to someone you’ve not been able to keep in close touch with, just to remind them that you treasure them, that their place in your garden is a permanent one, one that you cherish.

People need people. That’s why God made us in such abundance and multiplicity. And I’m betting that they who tend their relationships sit in good stead with The Creator. With God’s grace, perhaps one day I might count myself in their number.

Archive

Have a Mary Little Christmas

%d bloggers like this: