“Love is what you’ve been through with somebody.”—James Thurber

Love is an ongoing conversation, like spring, a perennial stance. We go through love. We move through it, like daylight rippling across the surface of water, like splitting wood opening one fine splinter at a time. We stumble through love with ourselves, with someone else, as graceful as roots lengthening beneath winter soil, stretching beyond the soft ground, blooming still.

photo credit: morguefile

After nearly 12 years, she still sends me lovely notes on paper. The kind of note I keep, stash with the other years of notes, memories, signatures, change of addresses, friendship.

In a time of electronic cards, emails, text message, and many things digital messaging, I suppose I’m still a fan of the occasional handwritten note, letter, card. In a conversation earlier this year with high school seniors, many of them also expressed their love for the handwritten, for pictures, notes, letters they can hold in their hand, smell, savor, read over and over again. They admitted to keeping “pen pals” and returning to writing letters and notes to send greetings and pictures just to have a different communication experience. These students surprised and inspired me as they expressed an appreciation for moments that are “low tech”, and “high touch”, less about instant, anonymous, casual communication, but more about deliberate, thoughtful, human-centered rituals in communication and writing. These students were looking for a balance.

Of course there are creatively endless ways to communicate using our technologies and devices, but there is something multi-sensory about the experience of writing a letter, a note, and then mailing it. It seems that same multi-sensory experience is ignited when mail arrives and it’s not a catalogue or a utility bill, but a handwritten note from a loved one or a friend, a note that traveled a long or short distance, with its own narrative of how it arrived.

What do you think? Do you occasionally hand write letters, notes, or cards, send them by mail, or slip them in the hand of a loved one or friend? Do you still receive handwritten notes?

When you are away your younger brother leaves space for you to play beside him on the rug, he saves you a toy, even if when you are here he doesn’t always like to share. He calls your name as if you will walk through the door or down the stairs to be with him. He hears us try to explain the swaying shifts of our family, the days you are away. He twists his face in confusion as we try to give him words for where you are in exchange for that empty space next to him on the sofa, at the table, in the room you both share. He still stands in the window looking for you, waiting. And I understand that wait because I’ve now taken up standing beside him.

So it’s Friday, and I’ve been writing about love all week. But a week of “found” love isn’t complete without reflection on some of the most sincere, honest, endearing love I’ve come to know. I appreciate watching my kids learn how to love each other through sibling conflicts, our blended family dynamic, through the busy of our lives, and through the small of their eyes. I watch their worlds come to life as they define and redefine love everyday for themselves, for each other, for me and my husband. They teach me that love is truly kind and forgiving, vulnerable, clumsy, an adventure.

Whoever you love, tell them today, every day.

To all those who have, who are friends…

There are twenty years invested in one of my most endearing friendships. We went to high school together, roamed in parallel circles, knew each other in and through the extracurricular, through streams of like interests, friends, passing greetings through the halls of high school. It was after high school, I was 18, and he was 19, that our friendship deepened, grew. There was a phone call to my dorm room within months of going away to college. The voice was familiar, reminded me of home. Since then, there have been years of phone calls, travel, adventures, music, and distance between us.

But even after 20 years, a connectedness with countless miles in between, and handfuls of two-and-a-half hour conversations by phone or in person, we’ve realized friendship is not enough. Friendship is a glass with many prints, smudges, late night conversations, years of life trials, careers in bloom, personal growth, marriages, children, love and life.

After sharing those moments together or apart, still, we’ve found that the word friendship is not enough. And in a time when the word “friend” is as easy as a virtual click on the Internet, I suspect we have not truly understood the meaning of friendship at all. I wonder if society is moving away from the idea of friendship because it is far too convenient, maybe even too deceptively safe to just breeze by status updates and timelines, and not truly bargain with the time of our lives, the time it takes to color in the lines of a friendship.

We are all busy right? But I believe that becomes an excuse we convince ourselves is truth because negotiating friendships near and far, virtual or in-person is a careful threading, that often leaves our thumbs sore with desire. The desire to be closer to each other as human beings, the desire to honor the people in our lives, to be surrounded by those we say we love in word, presence, or spirit, and define ourselves, our identities with those realities of love.

As we call on the word friendship, we should hold its acts accountable to its symbolic shell, and remember we have not failed. We have simply lived, sometimes together and sometimes apart. And while we have danced for many years along the lines, tracing around our silhouettes, dark etchings, and with some erasing, we are now ready to color in those lines, those roots, give friendship the time, space, and deliberate acts it takes to thrive. Here’s to the next 20 years, starting now.

“A friend is, as it were, a second self.”—Cicero

The word listen contains the same letters as the word silent-Alfred Brendel

We sometimes cut each other off because we are both passionate, full of fire, and have a lot to say. I think that passion is what we love about each other. We both desperately want to be heard but sometimes we don’t listen—to each other. It takes immense discipline, willpower to just listen. I don’t know why listening is so difficult—it just is. I imagine if we could just sit back, make eye contact, and take in what each other is saying, our conversations would sing. And I believe one day they will carry each note harmony, as they already sometimes do.

I imagine listening is intentional, patient, thoughtful, and unconditional. I don’t always know for sure, but that is what I believe. I do know that at times our listening in practice sometimes looks like careless dancing, stepping on each other’s feet. To allow someone to express their thoughts, even when what that other person is saying is difficult to hear, is something we are both committed to, just as we are committed to each other.

But we are not there yet. And we both know it, as we dance around our clever words, and catch ourselves pushing and pulling. We both like a good debate, a dueling of thoughts and ideas. We both have a lot to say. But we also have a lot more practice to do with each other; then we can take listening as far as it will go—from tepid to fuming conversations without interruptions. We both want to care deeply about what each other is saying, but we can’t hear each other if we are already in rebuttal, with our body language, in our minds, with our tongues, with even the slightest utterance.

Sitting close, connected, we can talk in fumes and heat, or in calm and peace. I appreciate his temperament, his willingness to try something different, while we teach our tongues to rest and listen, allow the silence to fill the space between our words.

Holiday Creative

(This is what happens when art museum educators have an office gift exchange)

Thank you!

My writing libation of choice: sweetened green tea (iced or hot)

Right on Amanda, this mug and green tea sweetened with simple syrup is perfect. Thank you.

If not for the flu, there would be no combustible onset of body aches and pains, chills, then fever, then chills again, a haze of cough and congestion, sneezing, sore throat, and all over exhaustion. This is a bad one, between he and I. The kind of flu that makes you want to disinfect everything, everyone as they enter in or out the door. The kind of flu that makes us want to cast a protective bubble around all three of our children, protect them from this ill state: not love, not marriage, the flu. But we know better. No such ultimate protection exists, just healthy eating, good and constant hand washing, surface washing, an open window or two, and love without hugs or kisses for a few days. Our hellos and goodbyes drift from our lips to our carefully scrubbed fingertips.

This cruel crackling ill is playing badly right at this very moment through the baby monitor, (thankfully it’s not the baby), my husband on his first of what will be many a dark day with this contagion. I’m on my fourth day in peril with this illness and it has shut my world completely down to fluids—tea, soup, and comfort—a rotation of soft white cotton sheets filled with fever, germs, us.

If not for the flu, (I should note, I didn’t get the flu shot, but my husband did), we might pretend our signature household—our go, go, go lifestyle was infallible. We might think we are invincible, capable of human feats we can only imagine in comics, novels, and movies. The kids would watch us and think they too could do anything—and sometimes they can, we can—but our steps are all measured by something. And if not for the flu, we might get too cozy with our germs, shorten our hand washing, or miss out on that soothing warm tea sweetened with buckwheat honey. We might forget or dismiss how vulnerable we really are, or in that same breath—how much we’re really loved by someone else.

So while we fight this germ filled battle, together, with every bit of “wait it out” we can muster, I’ll just take a moment to be thankful. If not for the flu, I might be tempted to forget love keeps us—in sickness and in health.

Last night at 3am, I was dizzy with sleep. I’d grown tired of us on the sofa—not of us really, more like us curled up with cramped necks and lack of circulation. But as I opened my eyes and readied my tingling limbs to climb the stairs to bed, I found myself sandwiched between darkness and the flickering stream of color glowing in my husband’s interestingly fixed and seemingly amused eyes. I was confused, sleepy, maybe a little delirious. I felt as if I had interrupted a moment between his guilt free transport into an imaginary action world and the gloriously ominous story lines accompanied by bizarre sounds only superheros fighting for future civilizations can effect. Needless to say, I left my husband curled up, engulfed in The Avengers, (as in Marvel comics, Iron Man, Thor, Captain America, The Hulk).

marveltvnews.com

What can I say, the man likes comics, no big deal. But at 3am, I admit I was surprised that he was willing to trade precious sleep for one, or maybe it was two or three, I don’t know I left him downstairs, 20-minute episode(s). To be fair, I suppose it isn’t much different from the coveted sleep I trade when I’m writing. Then again, maybe it’s slightly different. I guess I just haven’t learned to appreciate fully those action hero one-liners, extraordinarily superhuman fist fights and choreographed brawls, and the ultimate in animated lessons of good and evil. I guess I just love my husband, comic nerd and all. And last night as I eased my way upstairs to bed, I left him to his own devices, where only the true admirers of superhero magic lie in waiting.

I don’t have to understand why one would trade sleep for cartoons and superheros; though to be completely transparent I did sit through one episode because I was curious. My conclusion–I still don’t understand. But again I don’t have to. Perhaps love is a bit superhuman in its capacity to allow the one you love to be who they are, even if who they are dwells in unfamiliar and animated late night spaces.

Uttara mentioned Dawali in passing, over the cubicle at work, in between deadlines and our conversations about home and family. We stared for a brief moment at her photograph from India, two little girls, sisters, with dark shiny hair, dressed in bright colors and smiles. That day my friend gave me her memory, shared with me golden tones of her childhood, a piece of her quiet light.

The next day my seven-year-old gave me an ornament he made at school. He mentioned the ornament as symbolic, a perilous journey that led to peace. He tried to explain his understanding of the Festival of Lights, the candle he made for me cupped in his hand, his friends from India at school. I told him about my friend Uttara, how she too is from India. My son and I shared our stories of our friends, stepped outside of ourselves after a long day at work and at school. I thought about how culture could find itself weaving in between these disparate and casual conversations. I thought about how my friend and my son are strangers, but they both, and on the same day, shared their light.

I lit the candle in the center of my son’s handmade ornament later that day, imagined a sweet joy and celebration, thoughts of my friend curled up in the golden clay. I paused to be still in the light, wishing my friend and my son happiness in the days that follow, peace in the wave of this flame.

In an age where people seem just as isolated as we are “connected”, friends meander through our lives, touch us in ways we remember and sometimes forget. Our dearest friends are often close and few, a voice or a word away. Recently, time spent with a fairly new friend only in town for a day, felt familiar, like our letters and poems woven back and forth for the past few months.

In person, she was a confident smile, a paced breath, a pen pal without paper or screen. We were present that day in our summer dresses, over courses of fresh greens, paella, blush and fizz. In conversation we found ourselves 10 years before children, before heartbreak, healing, before meeting only a year or so ago. And until we pick up the tail of our last laugh or cry, I will remember random utterings and red light glow, ripe petals and Barcelona in August.

And then there was dinner with a view—of the sky, the water, a glassy mirror, the bright and mild cityscape, of you. Last night on the patio there was dusk blending plum and orange sky, the cool water rippling, us, and surprisingly terrible mood music playing in the background—but the rest of the scene was fitting and the accompaniment of sunset made up for it. That gorgeous sunset was no comparison to my present company, a beautiful smile, conversation that never tired, laughter, sincerity. I’ve missed eating dinner outdoors at dusk, but mostly I’ve missed the space for love and idle time with you.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.–Rabindranath Tagore

I don’t know what it is about commuting in the car, but somehow my seven-year-old always finds a way to innocently lure me into complex conversations about life. I call it his backseat curious kid confessionals, and no matter how clever I think I’ve gotten at answering his myriad questions, he always finds a way to stump me every now and then.

“Mom, should I get married when I grow up?” he asked.
“Sure honey, if you meet someone special, someone really nice,” I said.
“How do you know if someone is special? I don’t like to argue,” he said. In that moment I thought to myself, “which should I try to tackle first, ‘the someone special’, or the arguing?”

“I think the person you marry should be someone you are nice to, and that someone is nice to you. You want to first love the person you marry, but I don’t know if love is always enough,” I said. It’s a good think I was driving and couldn’t see what I imagine was a perplexed look on my son’s face as I went on to say, “I think you should also like the person you marry. I think you should be friends with that person because honey, most people in relationships have disagreements or arguments sometimes. That’s just how it is. You can’t always agree on everything,” I said, “But if you genuinely like and get along with that person, you won”t hurt each other when you disagree on stuff.”

At this point in my explanation, I started second guessing myself. I wondered if I was over explaining, telling him too much. I wondered if the person I was really talking to was myself, that little girl thirty years ago when I was seven, or that big girl now, driving and reflecting. As a matter of fact, I knew I was probably over explaining all of this love and relationship stuff, but I just kept going.

“Honey, I think if you love and really like someone, it makes it easier to get along with that person,” I said. “When you disagree with someone you care about, if you are friends, if you love and like that person, you will want to be nice to them and they will want to be nice to you. You don’t have to be with someone who isn’t nice to you. And someone isn’t going to want to be with you if you are not nice to them.” “Nice” was the most simple and direct adjective I could think of at the time—remember I was driving and he’s only seven-years-old.

I can’t believe my son is already thinking about how relationships and love work. I thought just getting through first grade was enough; but here he is thinking about the qualities of a healthy loving relationship.

It was interesting to have that conversation with my son that day because it got me wondering if other parents are getting these kinds of questions from their young kids, and if those parents are also fumbling trying to talk to their kids about this stuff. When the time comes, how will our kids know what a healthy relationship is if we don’t sprinkle them with a little early wisdom to think about as they grow and mature?

Sure, I’d like to think that my seven-year-old is miles away from finding that special someone, but I also think he is curious as he watches the relationships around him, with my husband and I as front and center. I think naturally a part of parenting is modeling a healthy loving relationship for our kids, but I also think it’s about fielding their most innocent questions about love, friendship, and healthy relationships, that allows them a safe space to ask questions, even when those questions make us as parents speechless or uncomfortable.

How else will kids learn? Who will they learn some of these life lessons from? Sure there will come a time of trial and error once kids are old enough to date, but I’ve come to see that kids are curious much earlier than when they are old enough to start dating, and I think it’s healthy to talk about these kinds of things with kids when they ask. As a matter of fact, I appreciate my son trusting me enough to inquire about what makes a healthy relationship. It was a catalyst for me to reflect on how little I knew about the ingredients to a healthy relationship until much later in life.

Growing up, I just don’t remember having any conversations with my parents or a trusted adult about how a person should be treated in a relationship, and I admit, I stumbled and made quite a few mistakes before I finally got it right. As I remember, I think my mom tried to talk to me about the very basics of love and relationships, but I was much older before my mom and I could talk more candidly. It wasn’t until my thirties, before I realized what a healthy partnership, a friendship, a loving relationship could look like. And it wasn’t until I had some ideas about what healthy love didn’t look like before I finally started making some different choices in life. I often wonder had I had someone to impart wisdom, a few simple reflections on healthy love, maybe that might have saved me from a few rough years of heartache and pain. Then again, maybe the only way for me to have discovered a healthy love was to stumble through all the other, less than successful dating, “love”, and life experiences.

And while I wish I could impart enough wisdom to ensure my son won’t have to experience bits of love’s heartache, I know that’s not realistic. Naturally as his mom I want to protect him, but in reality I know all I can do is continue to talk to him, allow him a safe and healthy glimpse of love in all it’s beautiful complexity, slightly annotated with sweet honesty, and a few words of wisdom from mom.

Many of us have images, memories, recipes, instances of interaction with all the colorful characters in our families. I think a lot about those who have woven close, lifelong bonds with grandparents, parents, siblings, and other extended family. I remember those woven threads growing up with both sets of grandparents within earshot (or at least a short driving distance away). I remember the regular gathering of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Not just in special occasion, a wedding, a funeral, or a reunion, but maybe for dinner, or to be social, or most often, for no reason at all. I wonder if I took that for granted as a child. I certainly miss that dynamic now as an adult.

My husband has a similar story. While my his roots are overseas, growing up, many of his family members were moving to the United States or already in the States and settled. So as his equally large family settled here, he too was surrounded by a network of elders, aunts and uncles who helped raised him, and cousins, who were like siblings, seemingly down the street and within reach in love and in mischief.

I think about family, our families—my own growing family. I think about how our kids won’t exactly have that experience of growing up with aunts and uncles, cousins as siblings—not in the way my husband and I did. I think about how that might impact them (if at all), or what we can do to make sure they have important bonds with the few aunts, uncles, and cousins they do have.

Just a few weeks ago, I listened as my mom-in-law reminisced about her family. I know that with my husband and I quite a distance away from either of our extended families, the distance is an ache in both our mother’s hearts. Today, our families are not round and full like they were in the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s, when a house full of children was often the social norm. In this modern day, we are making different choices for our lives. We have moved and settled where our careers will flourish and where our undergraduate or graduate educations have left us. We are often having less kids, a smaller, more nibble family, and are creatively carving out our options in education and career. When I feel nostalgic, thinking about options of living closer to either my husband’s or my own extended family, I can’t help but consider that the everyday reality of family doesn’t always look like it does in my nostalgia laden dreams. The idea of family is as lovely as it can be colorfully complicated. Our family dynamics are often woven with splendor, wrinkles, and spurs.

When I consider what I dream of in my own family (my husband and kids), I imagine an unconditional love of family that provides something indescribable, something unspoken, something memory can only attempt to remind us of in pictures, stories, laughter and tears. I often think about how without family nearby, our friends have become family and how our village of people help us “raise” our children, keep us grounded, and keep us stable. I am reminded that “love” is in blood, work, and words—family is in friendship and sometimes that is just enough, all we have—for now.

However, even as we have our most vital and precious friendships, I can’t help but wonder how life would be different if my own family lived near our extended family; how visits in person would replace Skype, phone calls, letters, packages in the mail, distance. I wonder about our friends who do live near their families, and how that has impacted their lives, their children’s lives. I wonder about the compromise in our choices. We do have choices today that our grandparents and parents did not have yesterday. That is the beauty in the spell of our changing lives, in our changing family dynamics. And while the love of family may be unconditional, when we love from a distance, there seems an uneasy truth, a dizzying tradeoff of time and presence that we can’t get back. It is family (however each of us defines it), that binds, shades our walk, colors our tongue, leaves a bold and permanent mark on our lives.

What is family? They were the people who claimed you. In good, in bad, in parts or in whole, they were the ones who showed up, who stayed in there, regardless. It wasn’t just about blood relations or shared chromosomes, but something wider, bigger. We had many families over time. Our family of origin, the family we created, and the groups you moved through while all of this was happening: friends, lovers, sometimes even strangers. None of them perfect, and we couldn’t expect them to be. You can’t make any one person your world. The trick was to take what each could give you and build your world from it. –Sarah Dessen, author of Lock and Key

…because love cannot always fly without resting,
our lives return to the wall, to the rocks of the sea:
our kisses head back home where they belong.—Pablo Neruda

The other day, with little prompting, my husband went off on a random tangent about love and marriage as he stood in the kitchen washing the dishes. I remember this conversation came right off the heels of us discussing our surprise to hear about the Heidi Klum and Seal break-up. Luckily, we don’t take our cues from celebrities, but those two (with their incessant PDA) just seemed so happy right? Celebrity or no fame at all, it’s tough to see any relatively long-term relationship end abruptly–especially one that involves children. But the truth is most relationships have another side; most have many sides, many colors, and many days of bright and gray. I suppose it’s what couples do with those gray days that make all the difference.

I can’t say for sure that the demise of yet another celebrity marriage inspired this wind gust of guy wisdom on my husband’s part, but the more he talked, the more passionate and excited he became, and the more honest sense he made. There are no rules about these matters of the heart, but my husband seemed to have his ideas about this subject all sorted out. That’s my kind of guy–one who can talk love and commitment while doing the dishes–an impressive show of thoughtfulness and multitasking. I was sold; it looked good on him. I was curious about all he had to say on this subject so while he spoke, I didn’t say a word. I just sat back and listened (oh and took a few notes). It went something like this…

“Marriage isn’t for punks,” he started off (as I perked up to hear what was coming next). “Marriage will stress you. It will push you. It’s not always bliss all the time (you telling me I thought). You have to work on getting back to the bliss when you run into the hard times. You have to find that middle ground and build on that. You can’t be 100% all the time. You can’t be madly in love all the time because the minute life gets hard and tests the love, you think as a couple if you’re not feeling (and acting) madly in love, something must be wrong. For so many couples it’s too much trouble to go through the hard times. Some couples think the moment they fall out of bliss, the relationship must be over. It’s not over. Getting through the hard parts of life is what tests a couple’s love and commitment to each other.

You can’t go through years of marriage without running into some tough times. Some people would just rather give up instead of going through the rough stuff. Giving up just seems easier. I think a lot of couples can find their way back to what brought them together in the first place, but you can’t get back to the good without first going through some of the bad. It’s balance. When love gets too complicated, people want to leave the relationship. Life isn’t easy; and love isn’t either. But when the hard times come, couples have to be strong together.”—Alfonso

Two…together…committed to all that is and all that is yet to come.

The reunion…

Part of what I love about parenting is getting out of the way and watching these kids form their own bond, build their own relationship. There is nothing that warms this mama’s heart more than having these boys back together again. Now if I can only keep them (together) long enough to clean up their room (together), then that will really be something (smile).

There are some gifts that start off as memories, travel a long distance, and shuffle around in a dark cardboard box with many other cardboard boxes of certain sizes, heights, weights, and intentions. These gifts thrown from hand to hand, from plane to truck, sit tucked away in a parcel carrier’s arms, this precious message posed as an object to keep to read, to reflect. These gifts as they stand alone are not necessarily what prove thoughtful—rather the thought, the time, the effort reflects that someone, somewhere is thinking of you. And the surprise is not that you don’t expect it, but that a single simple thoughtful moment can remind you of a friendship, a kinship that is sweet, that lingers on for years and settles into a lifetime. There are some gifts that make you miss yesterday and wonder if their presence alone is a preface for tomorrow.

Thank you Zülâl, your timing is precious, precise, as I’ve been reading Other Colors by Orhan Pamuk, looking to his words as inspiration, climbing into his swirling thoughts, his brilliant writing. The Museum of Innocence was a quiet title on my mammoth list of books to one day read and I’m humbled that you remembered. Thank you.

I knew it was a good sign when we walked in with a couple of kids in tow and the host station didn’t bat an eye of worry or concern. We love dining in the Short North, an urban, cool and trendy little area in town with shops, galleries, and great restaurants. We have quite the food scene in our city and why shouldn’t we eat at places with white tablecloths and cloth napkins—these boys have to learn somewhere, somehow.

Recently, we met a family friend out, and gathered at Hubbard Grille for an early evening dinner. I was surprised and impressed how prepared they were with a kid friendly menu and crayons, balanced with the surroundings of a more mature dining experience. It was an interesting pairing and I appreciate that Hubbard Grille thinks it’s o.k. to have your kids out for dinner and let them try dining in places other than the usual super casual restaurant chains that often cater to families but don’t often have super interesting food offerings. We’ve been practicing so my boys are getting the hang of how they should behave when we’re dining out. What can I say other than it’s always an adventure.

Some delicious highlights from our feast included: the cornbread with lavender infused butter (delicious), the three cheese spinach dip with house-made light and flaky tortilla chips, the five tomato soup (my husband is a fan), the mac and cheese (a favorite of the kids), and the Scottish salmon. Overall, we had a great time. The kids were thrown in with all the other “grown-up” tables and they had a ball, socializing and as Mason reminded us, “keeping our napkins on our laps.”

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Falling out of touch with a friend is typical. We live such busy lives; it’s easy for friends to sway in and out. But what I appreciate about most of my friends (near and far) is our ability to pick right back up where we left off, as if I had talked to them yesterday. This seems to be a phenomenon. I really can’t explain it.

I’m sure others experience this sort of thing with their friends but I’m always left amazed at how easy it is to slip right back into the lives of those friends that I’ve known and loved for years. It’s really powerful. And what’s even more mysterious is the moment when you can sit down face to face with a dear friend to just catch up, it’s just so easy.

Just a few weeks ago a girlfriend of mine was in from Detroit. Together over dinner at my house, we sung in each other’s ears life’s crazy rhythms and celebrated motherhood, love. And just recently I had a quiet easy dinner at Black Olive in the Short North when a longtime dear friend of mine just happened to be in town that day for an event. We connected that morning, met for dinner early that evening, and caught up in giant steps and ease. In both cases, a phone call wasn’t enough, and a text only scratched the surface. Being in each other’s space was just right. Friends like that don’t come along often. I’ve been blessed with a few friends like this in my life—thank you—I’m lucky.

And so I think back to several months ago when I spotted her sitting in the back row of the movie theater, her serious gaze was unmistakable, her style, chic and fluid. I hadn’t seen her in so long. We smiled in greeting, hugged tightly, briefly exchanged emails, and promised to be in touch. Sometimes after seeing a longtime friend, even with the best intentions, it’s really difficult to plan around schedules and get together. You have every desire to, but sometimes it just doesn’t happen.

So I sent her an email. We played email tag for nearly three months, catching up in little bits and pieces, flickering humor and sincerity back and forth with short verse and “emoticons”. This gesturing created a brilliant tension; we were determined to get together, to see each other in person. Besides, she is local, we had no excuses. But between her move, her trip to Chicago, my trip to D.C., both our work and social schedules, getting together seemed impossible.

Until a few days ago, after several late night replies, and a handful of rescheduled dates, we met out on the patio at Mojoe in German Village. We sat down, ordered a few sweet and sparkly cocktails, some small tapas style bites, and finished off with rich (and warm) slices of German Chocolate cake (we both have a sweet tooth). Nothing was forced; we talked as if we had talked yesterday and the day before (we actually had over email). We picked up right where we left off, and left off, right where we’ll pick up sometime later or maybe sometime soon.

There are a few other friends I can think of that I do this with—sometimes over the phone but most often in person. I miss when getting together was easy, but I like the dance of staying together, even when it’s hard, it keeps longtime friendships only a conversation away.

I channel the little girl inside of me, curl up in my mother’s voice and stay a while.We can talk the day away, spill over each other’s sentences. I listen to her every word—her wisdom, her strands of grace. I can only hope I grow to be half the mom my mother is to me. And maybe one day, when my sons are much older, they will channel their little boy, curl up in my words and stay a while.

To jumpstart this year’s National Poetry Month, I offer “Invictus”. First introduced to me by poet Terrell Dunbar, a dear friend, and mentor.

We used to perform this poem as a duet. He had an amazing command of his voice, his words, a deep wide river, thundering with currents. We would trade the lines of this poem, back and forth, pushing and pulling at the rhyme. We could always fall into this little known poem, weave our voices together, rise and fall in its cadence. Thank you Terrell for hearing my voice alongside yours in this poem. Now that you’re gone, I read it in my one lone voice and still hear you speaking beside me. Rest in peace…

Invictus by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud…
Read more at Poetry Foundation

That’s my theme from now on. I sometimes think as busy people we forget to slow down and think about what we as individuals need to be peaceful, productive, and prosperous (the alliteration was not on purpose…I promise). So against my initial will, a friend convinced me to get away for a weekend. It’s hard for me to take time away from my son, work, my writing, and other community commitments I have going on. But I soon realized that taking a little time off is necessary.

We deemed it the “get what you need” getaway. Six women friends, all who live all over the country, set out to meet in one place and find their peace. And I think we found it…sitting by the pool, sipping on libations, talking among true friends with good energy, and simply just letting go. I realized that I can take a few moments to breathe and enjoy the sunrise, a beautiful view from the terrace right off the room I was staying in. I can sleep in and stay up late. I can laugh, sing, and dance. I can fall in love. I can just be.

Thank goodness for friends. Thank goodness for time and space. I didn’t realize in this world of non-stop over scheduling, stopping to let go a little is o.k. It’s better than o.k.; it’s actually exactly what I needed.