THE LOVES OF MY LIFE

 

Yesterday, Valentine’s Day, I woke up thinking about the concept of “the love of one’s life.” The idea that each of us has one true love that is truer than all the others. 

 

After a very small amount of thought, I rejected the idea.

 

Yes, I can say without hesitation that my husband is the love of my life.  I have loved other men.  I have lived with other men.  But he is the romantic love of my life.  

 

The key word here is romantic.  Many of us can name the romantic love of our lives.  But does the concept have to end with romance?  

 

I think not.  

 

The other day, a friend told me about a podcast she had listened to, where someone had stated that the love of your life doesn’t have to be a romantic partner.  It can be a friend or even a pet.

 

I like this notion.  But does there have to be only one?

 

Again, I think not.

 

So, I want to write today about the non-romantic loves of my life. (I will stick here with sentient beings and leave out such things as writing and gardening.)

 

My daughters and grandchildren may be the greatest loves of my life.  For nearly 40 years, whenever I have heard the Beatles' song “In My Life,” I have thought of my daughters, and for nearly two-and-a half years now, the song has also brought to mind my grandchildren, who have joined this cohort of beloveds.

 

But this blog post is not for them or for my husband or my wider family, all of whom, I hope, know of my love for them. It is, instead, a love letter to my friends.

 

Yesterday, I recieved a double bunch of tulips in the mail (I don’t know how this is done---magic?) from two dear friends back east.  They were thinking of me as I approach a minor surgery next week.  Although the day of the flowers’ arrival was likely a coincidence, I chose to think of them as a Valentine.    

 

Yesterday, I also received a Valentine card from a friend of nearly 40 years, and messages of affection from others.  

 

How could they and my other close friends not be included among the loves of my life?  

 

These are the people who have seen me through—beginning with the one I met in the third grade and continuing straight through to the one I met last year.  These are the people who have comforted me and allowed me to comfort them.  These are the people to whom I have told secrets, who have listened to my news, helped me to solve problems, held me when I was devastated, laughed and cried with me.  

 

And here is the really amazing part—they have trusted me with their secrets, their joys and sorrows, their deepest selves.  And, get this, they have loved me at my most unlovable.  I said in the last paragraph that they had seen me through. But they have also seen through me. And they have not turned away.

 

As I think about the loves of my life, I am picturing myself at the center of a braid, with strands of different colors for family, lovers, and friends.  Some strands have the thickness of years; some are newer and thinner, but are no less a part of the whole that carries me through my life.  There are frayed patches where friends or romantic partners have dropped away or loved ones have died. There are also a few gaps where there has been a loss, followed by a reconnection. But neither the gaps nor the frayed bits have affected the strength of a braid that has been so many years in the making.  (And I like to think that those who have passed hover yet around its twists and turns.)

 

The older I get, the more I understand that I would be nowhere without those lives braided around mine. And even as I treasure time alone, I know such time would be intolerable without the embrace of the loves of my life. 

May we all cherish the people who have chosen to entwine their lives with ours, for who would we be without them?

 

 

 

 

 

SHOWER THE PEOPLE

Shower the people you love with love

Show them the way you feel

Things are gonna work out fine

If you only will.

        -  James Taylor**

Last week, I spoke on the phone with an old friend who lives about as far from me as it’s possible to get without falling into an ocean.  We don't talk very often, but she is dear to me.  When we signed off, she said, "I love you."  "Me, too, you," I replied.  Today, I had lunch with another friend, who, talking about the difficulty of finding time for friends amidst the fullness of our lives, said, "I only see you about every six months and I love you."  “And I, you,” I responded.

Simple words, yet often left unsaid.

Which brings me to the James Taylor song quoted above.  This song absolutely shreds me every time I listen to it.  His soulful voice admonishing us to “shower the people you love with love” yanks my heart right out of my chest.

Yesterday, I spoke with a family member who told me he has been risking vulnerability by telling friends and family what they mean to him.  Why, I wonder, is it risky to tell people that we care, that we love them, that they are an important part of our lives?  Why should this make us feel vulnerable?

Why do we hold back?  Is it because we believe the important people in our lives will always be there?  Here is a cautionary tale.  I had a friend with whom I shared a love of writing.  We would meet for lunch from time-to-time and talk about our kids.  We would exchange drafts of writing projects.  There came a few months during which we didn’t have any contact.  We were both busy. He was in a new relationship.  I kept thinking that I needed to call him, that I would call him.  

And then, quite suddenly, he died.  I never got to have lunch with him again or to tell him that his friendship was important to me. 

Dear reader, if there is someone you are thinking about calling, please do it.  Don’t wait. 

It's not difficult for me to tell some people how I feel. I almost never leave either of my daughters without saying "I love you."  This comes as naturally as breathing.  It was not so with my parents, who, like many in their generation, did not make these declarations of love.  Toward the end of her life, I would tell my mother that I loved her.  She seemed surprised, then pleased.  She was ultimately able to tell me that she loved me.  It felt important to share these words before she left this life. 

I find it easy to tell some friends what they mean to me, and with others. I hesitate.  Will I make them uncomfortable?  Is this their way of relating?  With these friends, I can call.  I can check in. There are ways of showing love without words.

So, let’s do it.  Let’s let our love shine.  

And let me say to my friends and family, right here and now, in writing, I love you.  Thank you for seeing me through.  Thank you for accompanying me on this journey.  You mean the world to me.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

**  This is not the first time I have quoted James Taylor in a blog post. I come back to him again and again.  He seems to be providing the soundtrack for my life.  For those who don't know the song, here he is singing Shower the People. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfJWqjoekow

KINDNESS REMEMBERED

         In the summer of 1967, when I was 17 and newly graduated from high school, I had a job in the technical library of the Newark, NJ conglomerate where my father worked as an engineer.  (Nepotism at its finest.)  I remember very little about the job, other than the fact that I did clerical work that was both tedious and exacting

         What I do remember is an important friendship that blossomed during -- and lasted only the length of -- that summer.  I don’t remember my friend’s name, what he did for the company, or how it was that I began to have conversations with him.  More than likely, he came into the library one day, and that was the start of our friendship.  In any event, how we met is not important.  What is important is what he did for me.

         The man was African American, and, my guess across the mists of time is that he was in his mid-to-late twenties.  The fact of his heritage is important because, having grown up in a white suburb in northern New Jersey, I had only ever spoken with one person of color before meeting this man, who, for purposes of this post, I will call “David.”

         Our friendship was chaste, and he was kind.  Of course, I do not remember our conversations in any kind of detail, but I know that we did not engage in small talk.  I know that we talked about civil rights and the war in Vietnam.  This was the ‘60s, after all.  I would have told him that I was going to start secretarial school in September (there’s a detour for another post) and he would have told me about his education and his work.  

        Yesterday, I came across this quote from Maya Angelou:   “People will forget what you said.  People will forget what you did.  But people will never forget how you made them feel.”  That is what I remember about David– how he made me feel.

         He made me feel intelligent and as if I were worth talking to.  He was patient and listened to this young girl as she tried to work her way through her confusion and sorrow over the state of the world. I had watched the Civil Rights Movement unfold on television.  I had been horrified by the police dogs and the fire hoses.  But I had been a teenager, a not very mature teenager, sitting in my white suburb with my white family and my white friends, and had been at a loss as to what I could do about any of this.  David took my concerns seriously.  As I said, he was kind. 

         At end of the summer, David gave me a wooden carving.  I felt touched and honored by the gift.  I still have it.  

        

         

        I have carried it with me through all of my moves for over 50 years.

        I had only one more contact with David after that summer, a contact that I had forgotten until yesterday, the fiftieth anniversary of the murder of Martin Luther King, Jr. 

         David must have given me his address on the last day of my employment at the conglomerate.  How else could I have written to him on that awful day seven months later when MLK was killed?  I don’t remember what I said in my letter.  I expect that I once again saddled him with my grief and fear and confusion. 

         I do remember that he wrote back.  I long ago lost the letter, but I still remember how it made me feel -- comforted and heard.  What a gift to a very young woman who was always being told that she was too intense, too sensitive, too much. What a gift from a young African American man who must have had much more on his mind than the feelings of a young white woman.

         So, David, I may not remember your actual name, but I do remember how you made me feel. 

        

          I hope that your life has been as kind to you as you were to me.  And I hope that I have in ways, however small, occasionally paid your kindness forward. 

          And may all who read this have a David or two to see you through.

HOW TO ATTEND YOUR OWN MEMORIAL SERVICE WITHOUT HAVING TO DIE

                  Have you ever wondered what people will say at your memorial service? 

            No?  Me either.  But I think I just found out. 

            Two nights ago, my husband and two dear friends threw a retirement party for me.   It was lovely and overwhelming.   Amazing friends.  Amazing food.  A blur of greetings and well wishes. 

            Toward the end of the evening my friend Noelle, a school teacher, used her professional skills to quiet the din in the room, and then invited people to speak.  Some of the speakers had apparently been lined up in advance, some not.  I sat in a chair and listened to people say lovely things about me, things that are generally not said this side of a memorial service.  

            And I didn’t have to die.   

            It was kind of an out-of-body experience, at once humbling and mortifying.  I was deeply moved by the love and friendship in the room, even as I struggled to recognize the person being lauded.     

           

            I tell you this not to toot my own horn.  Your friends would do the same.  (And like mine, they would – given the occasion – refrain from mentioning your less adorable qualities.)

            I write here to share what I understood while surrounded by friends on Saturday night and while thinking about the dear ones who were unable to be present or who live too far away to have been invited.  Here it is:  The measure of my life so far is not in my accomplishments.—not in the appellate briefs that I wrote over the course of my legal career or in the weekly garden column that I wrote for several years or in the degrees that I have earned. 

            It is in my relationships.  It is in the people who surrounded me on Saturday night and those who were unable to be there.  My book group.  My writing group.  My co-workers.  My fellow students.  My husband.  My amazing daughters.  Their father.  The friends who have been with me for years and those who entered my life more recently.  The people who have seen me through and given my life meaning.  Without these people none of the “accomplishments” would have been possible, nor would they have mattered a bit.

            When I was in college, my father (an engineer) lamented my choice of English as my major.  “But, it’s not productive,” he would say.  He was right.  And I didn’t care.  For better or worse, I have always valued connection (whether with dead authors or living people) over productivity, and Saturday night I felt the rewards of this approach.  I could feel the roundness and fullness of my life.  I could feel the intersecting currents of my connections buoying me up and the questions about whether I could have been more productive or more ambitious floating away.

            I am so very grateful to know that I have friends and loved ones who will see me through as I move forward into the next chapter of my life. 

            My cup runneth over.    

   Photo by Santiago Lacarta on Unsplash