Changing Colors
This past weekend I went to Oregon and saw three of my favorite people in the world. One of them happened to be getting hitched (!!!!!!!!!), and witnessing her kickass community was another gift altogether. I know I’m prone to hyperbolize–but seriously, these women. We can be out of touch for months, not see one another for years and within minutes of reconnecting we’ll be laughing so hard my head hurts. We have been friends for nearly twenty years and live vastly different lives in far-flung corners of the world. We have partnered and un-partnered between meetings, had illnesses and have unraveled and respooled and had to tell the stories of our survivals and triumphs in the past tense. When we do happen to cross paths during crises, we cook meals for one another, watch one another’s children, open our homes. We reminisce a bit, but that’s not the bulk of what we do together. Each time we meet, we discover new reasons to be friends and take stock of who we’ve become. As with all great relationships, our friendship contains multitudes of friendships. If I met any of these women for the first time today, I would be delighted to become friends with them. But fortunately, that’s not the spot I’m in.
In airports and hotels and living rooms and in the mountains and on the bank of a little pond filling quickly during a hurricane. Each time we come together is its own story, but there are threads that weave through them, patterns that are present, even as we learn new things about one another. At fifteen and nineteen and twenty-five. When I was thirty we linked hands in a circle under the stars in Upstate New York and I swore to them I’d extract myself from a situation that was hurting me. All the people I have been in their company are part of who I’ve become now. Long sporadic relationships–even ones that aren’t all glowy–are great markers of growth. It’s the differences placed alongside the similarities plotted against the y axis of time.
Use that calculus in a poem. Maybe it’s an aunt or uncle or cousin that only visited occasionally, or a casual friend you run into when you visit your hometown. This doesn’t have to be a piece about favorite people–because really, at its core, it’s a piece about you (narssicism is no longer a disorder, fyi). Just write the scenes, see your changes through their eyes.
I hate to beg you to do things. Really, I do. But I must. You have to click on this link and read this poem. It’s a little long–but holy shit. It’s amazing. Tell me it’s not amazing–I dare you. It’s Mosaic, by Tim Seibles. Check out all those patterns.
And this, because maybe you weren’t invited to the wedding, but you should see this magic:
