To All My Besties!

I believe in bosom buddies, soul-mates, lifelong friendships.

My son recently met and became friends with someone he feels he was meant to be friends with. Someone he feels will be a lifelong friend.  When he was trying to articulate the importance of this friend to my husband, he said "it is like mom and Sara."

I met Sara when I was a sophomore in college while studying in Israel.  In total, there were 90 of us sharing the experience, but initially each one of us was alone.  We were strangers living in a strange land, drawn together through fear, a sense of adventure, excitement, and close living quarters.  I don't know why her and not another of the 88 students, but our friendship was fast, immediate, and profound.

We have been best friends for nearly 30 years.  We don't live near each other nor do we talk often, but we are still connected.  When we do get together, we pick up where we left off and it is as if no time time has passed.  After a visit with her, I feel uplifted, understood, and unconditionally accepted.  If I need something, anything, I know I can depend on her.  I'm sure she feels the same about me.  

Throughout my life, I have had hundreds of friends, but only a few have been friends of the same import, same worth, as Sara.  Each of those friendships has entered my life when I was in need of just such a friend:  when I began college, when I was studying abroad, when we moved our little family away from home to begin graduate school, when I began a new job, when we settled into what would become our home. In each of those moments, I was vulnerable in a way that at the time I probably would have denied, but I now know I was most certainly in need of a true friend.

As a girl, I read Anne of Greene Gables repeatedly.  I found in that story a connection to a female heroine that I had longed for.  She had red hair and freckles, was smart, and often found herself in trouble because of her fierce independence and unbridled tongue.  She was a fictionalized version of me--or at least what I thought I was.  I don't think I realized it at the time, but another element of the story that resonated for me was Anne's friendship with Diana Barry, her bosom buddy.  I secretly--even unconsciously--longed for my own bosom buddy, a reciprocal friendship that relied on trust, acceptance, understanding, and fierce loyalty.

I have found her more than once, and more than once that friendship was at least one of the things I needed at the time to develop, to find myself and my own independence, to feel secure.  Interestingly, I'm fairly certain they each needed my friendship at the same time for the same reasons.

Perhaps those friendships are serendipitous, a fortunate happenstance.  Two people in need; two people willing to fill a need.  Perhaps those friendships are divine interventions, gifts from a caring Creator who sees and knows us individually.  Whatever their origin, the import of those friendships is clear and was most simply articulated by a teenage son who knew little of this when he described his new, very important friendship as a friendship like Sara and mom.

Written March 8, 2015

Me, My Mom, Me

When I was a teenage girl, I made a list of all the things I hated about my mom.  All the things I would never do or say to my own daughter.  All the traits she possessed that I would never adopt.  Whenever I got upset with her or she got upset with me, I would add to the list.

I cannot remember much about the list now.  I know I was never going to yell at my kids or force them to do chores.  I certainly was never going to set expectations so high that my kids felt pushed or challenged or inadequate.

Ironically, as I raised my own children, I suspected that they too were making a list.  I also suspected that many of the things on my teenage list were on my own teenagers' lists.  I did occasionally yell.  I certainly expected them to do chores, and I know they thought expectations were high.  On more than one occasion, I heard the desperate complaint: "mom, I'm not perfect like you."

I'm not perfect and neither is my mom. Imperfection is a trait we share and, despite my list, we share many others.  When I look in the mirror today, I see her big blue eyes, her sun-spotted skin, her generous smile-induced wrinkles, and the beginnings of what will inevitably be sagging jowls.  But I also see strength, talent, creativity, competence, unselfishness, and a deep capacity to love.

Not only do I see her, though, sometimes when I speak, I hear her voice.  Sometimes, when I say something that I am sure she said in a way I'm sure she would have said it, I actually come to a physical stop.  In those moments, which seem to happen more and more often, I'm not sure if I should smile and move on or if I should rewind and say something different, something that I would say, something that sounds like me.

And then I realize, she is me and I am becoming her.

Thinking about this causes me to smile.  I am a physical tribute to my mother.  I am an intellectual tribute to my mother.  My parenting style is a also a tribute to my mother. Though I never consciously said I wanted to grow up and be just like her, I believe I succeeded.  And I am glad.

Written February 21, 2016

Superbowl Musings

Go Broncos!

I'm watching the Super Bowl and wondering why.  I don't like football--not even when my own son is suited up and a part of the action on the field.  In truth, I don't really get it and I'm perfectly happy in a state of confusion.  I do nothing to counteract that:  I am not a student of the game, I care nothing about strategy, and I often know little about the players or teams on the field.  I recognized my own son on the field, not by his position or responsibility, but by the pair of sturdy ankle braces the persistent abuse forced him to wear.

I'm sure I'm not alone.  I'm almost positive that there are other non-lovers sitting in front of the television right now in varying states of attentiveness (or inattentiveness) even though they have other options.  So why do we do it?  Why do we join what we are led to believe is the vast majority of our country men and women if we are really not that into it?

Perhaps it's the hype, the commercials, the halftime show, the National Anthem, the media circus.  Perhaps.  But I think it is more than that.

Perhaps it's because the people in the room with us are worth the time.  They are people we love to share our recreational time with.  We are probably willing to give up more than an afternoon of our time for these particular people.  But I dare say it's more than that.  I believe it's more than that.

Perhaps we tune in as a nation because it is one of the rare days each year that we can pull together as a nation.  No politics.  No religion.  No work.  The outcome doesn't really matter--not in any meaningful way.  Die hard fans might initially disagree with me, but they know that tomorrow, win or lose, won't really be impacted by the outcome of the game.  No real wars are won or lost on the field.

Instead, people share an afternoon of escape and entertainment (at least in the form of commercials and halftime) and the competitive nature of our culture is celebrated--but with little long term impact.

On this day, at least for a few hours, we are all a part of something larger, something that pushes us together more than it pulls us apart.  We are US--celebrators of a uniquely American pastime which is an embodiment of contradictory American values like competition and cooperation, celebration and frustration, efficiency and excess.

That ... or perhaps it is nothing more than the excess of food.

Written February 1, 2015