WordSisters

Category: Reflection

  • Thank You for Being a Friend

    There may have been times in my life where I’ve wished for more friends, but surveying the landscape of the years, I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the growing richness of friendship around me. These friendships are both comforting and surprising. As a lifelong introvert and a bit of a loner, it’s taken me a while to find my footing with my friends. 

    I’m surprised, perhaps, because sometimes I’ve taken friendships for granted or maybe even realized that I may not always have been the best friend. I have forgotten birthdays, or let too much time go between phone calls, or even missed responding to texts. My well-crafted reply to an email or text often gets lost in my head. This does not reflect my affections. When I think of my friends, I smile internally recalling ways that I’ve met people, our histories and ways we’ve time we spent together, even if it was a long time ago. 

    When I was young, I had visions of popularity, thinking that popular people had the most friends, and who doesn’t want a lot of friends? I quickly learned that my quiet, introverted nature often set me apart as being shy or just too withdrawn to make easy connections with others. I longed for real connections and conversations, but didn’t know how to get there. 

    The author with her daughter and former roommate (and friend of 30+ years).

    The insecurity of adolescence has annoyingly stuck with me, although it’s less of an issue now than it used to be. But it is still a force that keeps me in the shadows more than it should. 

    In my 50s now, I still want to connect with people and find that I can still get in my own way when I worry about whether someone will like me or when I feel self-conscious. It is all too easy to pull into myself when faced with a group of people I don’t know very well.

    When I do make a friend, it usually sticks. I’ve been fortunate to make meaningful connections with people through the years, and despite my occasional inattentiveness, somehow those connections have lasted. Often those friendships unfolded over time and with a shared history; other times my connection was immediate and easy. 

    I’ve been lucky to be a part of a writing group that has been going for 20 years, where we’ve grown to know each other in unique and vulnerable ways through our writing voices and so much more. I’ve been equally fortunate to be part of a knitting group that has been meeting for even longer, bonding over knitting, conversation, and laughter. And I’ve made individual connections with people here and there: A friend I used to work with who shares my love of reading and always laughs at my jokes. A former roommate who saw me through some tough times and is the one that still generates loud and frequent laughter in me. Another friend I met at a neighborhood park when our kids were preschoolers. Other friends I’ve made through my daughter.

    Writing Besties: Brenda, Ellen, Jill, and Elizabeth

    I haven’t always had the time or energy to maintain friendships over the years. One of my sisters has friendships from elementary school, and she regularly sees others from her high school days. I can date my longest friendship to a friend I made in college, when we met in journalism school and quickly connected over books and writing. Blessedly, we are still connected despite being separated by more than a thousand miles and one time zone.  

    Developing and maintaining friendships takes time and intention, and it’s something I’ve found harder to do in my middle age years. Marrying in my mid-thirties and then becoming a mother in my early 40s put me out of sync with many of my peers. Early motherhood was often fraught with anxiety, and I found myself wishing for more connection. And then the pressures of working and caring for family made it harder to carve out time for friendship. I can still find myself feeling lonely at times, as my daughter grows more independent and will soon be out of the house. 

    I think the answer to that is to lean into the friendships that I have and nurture them a bit more. So, if you are my friend, please forgive me for missing your birthday or not calling more often. Know that you still hold a place in my heart. And expect to hear from me soon. 

  • What I Didn’t See Coming 10 Years Ago

    Marveling at Marie Antionette’s crazy little cottage at Versailles. Dancing to Aretha Franklin with my youngest son at his backyard wedding reception. Collaborating with my husband on creative projects like the bed frame he crafted and the quilt I designed. Sharing a Thanksgiving feast with family at the home of my oldest son and his wife. Spending summer mornings reading and writing on the porch. Enjoying hugs and giggles with my granddaughters. That’s what I hoped retirement would look like when I gave up paid work 10 years ago, and often it has. 

    When the chance to launch this phase came at 61, I eagerly jumped even though my career as a marketing communications copywriter and occasional college writing instructor had meant a lot to me. I’d come of age when women in those roles weren’t a given, and I’d made sacrifices to find my place in that world. 

    I expected my identity would evolve and be redefined by retirement—sometimes by me, more often by strangers who are dismissive of retirees. I rejected their stereotypes and for a time, when people casually asked at parties, “What do you do?” I answered, “I’m a writer.” Accurate, but incomplete. Now I don’t bother with that artifice. I know I’m a badass. Whether others see it or not is irrelevant.

    Since retiring, my personal life has developed in predictable and happy ways. We welcomed daughters-in-law, and they and our sons bought houses and had children. We’ve loved being part of those changes. What I didn’t see coming was Trump in 2016, COVID and George Floyd’s killing in 2020, and Trump again. 

    Today the world beyond my personal circle feels dramatically different than it did in 2015. There were problems aplenty then, but the government was still functional. This year DOGE slashed congressionally-approved funding for federal services including national parks, FEMA, NIH, USAID, and more. The executive branch disregards constitutional rights and federal laws without consequence. I could continue with my list of troubling changes, but I won’t depress you with it.

    In the past decade I’ve become more politically aware. More outraged. More impassioned. I began taking part in protest marches—something I never imagined doing. The whole idea sounded scary. Nonetheless, in 2017 I marched alongside my husband and our youngest son, who joined us despite being on crutches while recovering from a traumatic bike accident. Seeing so many like-minded people in the streets was heartening. Since then I’ve continued participating in marches, selectively. 

    I recognize the limits of protests, but it’s important to me to show up. I also began writing actual letters and emails to political leaders (vs. the forms political organizations provide). I doubt either effort does much good, but I hope the sheer size of the protests will get through to politicians. I have to do something. This isn’t the world I want. This isn’t what the United States is meant to be.

    I anticipate during the next 10 years of retirement, my personal life will evolve even further in expected ways. 

    But I fervently hope the political pendulum swings back from this destructive trajectory and re-centers on sanity, decency, and a functioning democracy.

  • Mom’s Afghan

    Mom had a soft ivory afghan her cousin Kathleen, my godmother, crocheted. When they were younger, Mom and Kathleen were close. They didn’t see each other as often when they got older, but that connection remained. The afghan is made of intricate lacy stitches and generously sized so your feet and shoulder and hip will still be covered if you turn over. It’s a work of art and a gift of love.

    But Mom rarely used it. She cherished Kathleen’s beautiful handiwork and wanted to preserve it. It was too good for every day. Instead, when she napped on the sofa—I’m just going to close my eyes for 20 minutes—she used the one Aunt Bertie crocheted, which was skimpier and had scratchy yarn. 

    When did Mom start taking naps? In her 60s? 70s? My age? 

    Now I assume she napped when didn’t she sleep well at night. But my younger self just took Mom’s naps for granted. I never asked or even wondered what kept her from sleep.  

    After Mom died, her afghan from Kathleen came to me.

    This morning I woke up predawn. Hot. Restless. My brain whirring with stray busy thoughts. I moved downstairs to the sofa and pulled the afghan from Kathleen over me in hopes I’d be lulled to sleep. I wasn’t. But on the day after Mother’s Day, the memory of Mom and my godmother covered me like a blessing.