Our lives twist and turn every which way. Like the tidal waves of oceans, we absorb everything within our reach, needed or not – from technicolored shells, to treasured, incredible creatures, to belligerent garbage, aimed at our destruction. We grab it all. Hungrily, languidly. It shifts inside us, builds and changes us. Then, we spit it back out, appropriately or not, for the world to see – out of context, in character. Our audience stands amazed at the shoreline, watching it all uncover, then recede. Soon, we are alone again, just as we always were – a mysterious, entangled mass of experiences, humans, stories – bloated, and shuffling with life below the surface.
Who gets us? Who knows us? Our authentic selves, without motive second-guessing, without an agenda. Whom do we trust? Who preserves and fights for us (even when we are not willing to do it)?
Friends, perhaps? Yes, they do. They DO! I’ve wondered why. I’ve asked how. For the benefit of my kids, I thought it worthwhile.
My childhood was steady. Relatively unique to the place and the time I grew up in, but it was steady, which also made it comforting. I felt safe. My people and I spend summers – from morning until after dark – playing, kicking up dirt, stones, then, with growing agility, sports balls. The parking lot between our two residential buildings became a bustling stage for life-or-death matches of dodgeball. The metal bar, reminiscent of a miniaturized, unforgiving volleyball net inspired hyper-intense volleyball matches, intercepted by the occasional adult, who came to dust-off the family rug at the behest of a matron. Games of hide-and-seek grew into epic neighborhood-vs.-neighborhood anecdotes of survival. We cried and laughed through it all.
Our ranks were infiltrated with regularity by strayed teenagers, there to bestow their special brand of holier-than-thou wisdom. Grandmas and grandpas took respite on their way from the “good” bakery, or the veggie market. They sat amongst us, the children, listened to our dynamic conversations and chimed in – with a word of caution, outrage, or a simple glance. From omnipotent D’Artagnan-like charismatic instigators, to soothing wise braggadocios, we saw and were moved unknowingly by it all.
We lived in a grandiose, thrilling universe of adventures – a sphere of inter-activity and influence, which spanned approximately 500 square feet. And we got to know one another – from the speckles in our eyes, to the dreams we laid out, as spoken wishes, as dares, through the rogue laughed-about-chin hair, to the boob comparisons, and petty “best friend” rivalry, to bursts of creativity, and
heartbreak. We knew each other, and knew when to push, and when to rescind away. Because this is what friends do. We chose moments to be individually crazy and purposefully isolated, but when each one of us was ready to come back into the fold, we embraced one another back IN … no questions asked.
That is, until we were ready to answer. We were each other’s Tribunal at the Hague, each other’s advocates, whatever was needed, at precisely the right time. We raised one another alongside, and some times, against our parents. We shaped one another with care, trust and love. We let each other BE.
I couldn’t help but wish for the same kind of freedom for my children. I couldn’t help, but worry about them, when I see their friends move away to what might as well be a different galaxy, even if it is *only* a different state. Because the depth and breadth of friendship, many of us know, can only be replicated, when people spend considerable unstructured time together, for years on end. When they are allowed, by circumstances, or cosmic (maybe even parental) design to muse, idle, create, fight freely, negotiate unobstructed, enshrouded by trust, empowered by their faith in one another, interwoven within each other’s psyches. Standing strong. Together. THIS is
what I want for my children.
