At arm's length
It’s a rainy day in Lisbon, and the gray sky always makes me reflective. Today I’m thinking about friendships, particularly those that have become distant while remaining attached in one capacity or another. I’m pretty quiet (or absent) on social media, but I have kept my Facebook account because I love having the ability to peek into the lives of people with whom I’ve crossed paths—sometimes substantially, sometimes momentarily—and feel somehow in touch despite my silence. It’s probably a false sense of connection, this reading and seeing without speaking or writing, but it ties me down when I’m feeling untethered.
My 40th birthday is just around the corner. My best friend’s birthday is in less than a month, and countless other friends, cousins, and old classmates are experiencing the same shift. I am feeling this collective sense of time and distance, and I’m thinking about the spaces in between that have been filled by some of our most momentous life changes, which are quite distracting as they require one’s attention and nurturing energy. But those life changes—getting married, having children, moving, even divorcing—consume so much of my finite energy that there’s little left to give the friends who have been or were by my side through years and experiences that were also momentous and life-changing. Sometimes I get overwhelmed by this desire to be present for people who have come and gone (and stay!) in my life—and other times I just want to fade away and close a door and be alone.
Last night an old friend from grade school reached out. I haven’t talked to her in over 20 years. But her smile is the same as it was when we danced on her bed to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Deaf Leopard (and I still know her birthday is June 6th). We lost touch when we went to high school, but I can recall countless memories attached to her from childhood. How is it possible that so much can remain despite how little is actually there? Will those memories, those stored smells and sounds, still be there when I’m nearing my 50th birthday? Will it matter?
Another good friend made the comment that she remembers her parents’ 40th birthdays so well, but her younger kids will likely not remember hers. The same is true for me. My parents grew up in a community where they spent all of their lives. Each one had a 40th birthday consisting of a party of 50 or more of their friends—nearly all of whom were also from the same town. They grew up together, went to school together, moved away for college, and then came back home. It wasn’t hard for my mom and dad to be surrounded by the people who’d witnessed their lives for so long. Even if I tried to do the same, I could never pull it off. While our reach in the world has expanded with the help of the Internet, it comes with further personal distance. My friends are from different stages of my life, most of which don’t connect with other stages in my life. And given that those major stages happened on four different continents, my friends are literally scattered all over the world. The idea of this is intriguing, but the reality of making new friends yet again at this given stage is sometimes exhausting while also being necessary. When I simply can’t do more, at least I can take comfort in reaching out to those who have been there for the long haul. Some friends transcend time and place. There are those friendships that you know will never be lost, that despite long periods of silence, the bond remains, and with a little shake or tug, it will pull you close again.
