Today (and always) I am grateful for my friends because, in recent weeks, I have discovered how difficult it is to make new ones. I have felt like a child, walking into the new mom groups or the classes and even the email feeds, feeling, as I have always felt: that I never quite belong. And I remember that my awkward, stammering conversation, my melancholy, my rambles, my long silences, my way of feeling so frantic or uncertain I forget to think, my words a runaway tumbleweed, are things that old friends, good friends, still tolerate.
I write this, not to be coddled, only to be honest, and to remind myself how lucky I am.
A lot of my friendships are founded on the basis of the yes, yes, oh! me too! exclamations. But some, and these are not any lesser, I treasure because we think in a pattern of opposites. I admire all my friends. There are pieces of them I wish I could steal for myself. Someday, I think, I’ll make a new patchwork me, out of them, all stitched and sewn.
I have felt, in these past few weeks, that friendships of proximity no longer satisfy me. It is not enough to live nearby, to be close in age, to come from the same place or stand beside one another in the same stage of life. There is something greater at work. An understanding.
I hate small talk. And introductions. I hate what do you do where do you live where do you come from and, yet, I don’t know any other way to begin.
I hope I am stumbling towards the people who become friends because one of us has followed a wild, meandering line to the other.
I hope you and I and all of us smack into each other when we are not looking.