My friend Monica

In first grade I had a best friend named Monica. We were inseparable, as only two six-year old little girls can be. We played house, we played jacks, we played at recess, we played at each other’s houses. And we giggled all day long. She was nice, she was funny, she understood about shiny, crystal, see-through pink plastic beads.

My mom liked her parents, and hers was the first ever, big-girl, all-night, stay-over, birthday slumber party I ever attended. Her mother, like mine was beautiful, and kind. She also had a father.

He was a bit of a mystery to me. He was tall and handsome and also kind, but I didn’t really get the father thing and was a little wary. Monica took him totally for granted. I was a little in awe of the way she just called him ‘Dad’ –like it was nothing—and told him what to do. I remember that he had a wonderful laugh, deep and unexpected.

One day Monica and I were playing on the playground, and jumped up, almost beside ourselves. We had made an incredible discovery, and we couldn’t wait to TELL. We ran off to find a teacher.

Unfortunately, that day the teacher on playground duty was not Mrs. Chin, our beloved first grade teacher. Not Mrs. See, the kind, white-haired old lady. (For years I thought she was the one who made all that chocolate…) Not even Mrs. Woodward, the principal.

The teacher on duty that day was Miss Kneeneighborly. (That was really her name—you can’t make this stuff up.) She wore dark blue suits with narrow skirts and ruffle-collared blouses. She wore her dark hair in a poufed-up pile on top of her head and thick bangs that just touched the witchy points on the ends of her blue cat-eye glasses. She had long legs and wore too much perfume and high platform pumps with sharp little heels that tattooed deep puncture marks all over the playground, like the tracks of some dangerous bird.

We were more than a little afraid of her. She was old and strict and mean.

(She was probably about twenty-eight, and terrified at the thought of imminent spinsterhood.)

She already looked the part.

Monica and I slid to a dusty halt in front of her, a little uncertain of our audience, but too full of discovery and delight to stop. We were ready to burst.

“Miss Kneeneighborly!” “Guess what we found!” “Guess what we found!”  We stuck out our hands, side by side.

Miss Kneeneighborly made some noises about running, about shouting, about pushing (who was pushing?), and about my KNEES.

My knees were always a little banged-up or dirty. Dirty from kneeling in the dirt, dirty from climbing trees, dirty from playing on the monkey bars, dirty from inching the wrong way up the slide.

(Monica, on the other hand, was always spotless. No wonder my mother loved her.)

I reached down for the wipe-wipe, dust-dust, stamp, stamp the dirt off of my knees.

With my right hand, because my left was still held out, next to Monica’s, palm down.

Miss Kneeneighborly looked at Monica and smiled.

We took heart.

“Monica,” she said, “why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Monica looked at me with a huge grin. She was missing a tooth. She touched the back of her hand,and rubbed it a little with her finger. “Look!” she said, “My skin on the outside is BLACK—” She touched the back of my hand, and rubbed it a little to show that it wouldn’t come off, either  “And HER skin on the outside is PINK—“ She looked at me.

That was my cue.

I flipped my hand over and pointed “And on the inside I’m PINK…” Monica turned her hand over and I touched it “ And SO IS MONICA!!”

Miss Kneeneighborly’s mouth opened.

In unison we shouted “We’re the SAME! INSIDE! Like SISTERS!” We both squealed and grabbed each other in a hug, jumping up and down for the sheer bursting-out-happy JOY of discovery.

Miss Kneeneighborly closed her mouth.

Then she opened her mouth again and BLASTED me.

Literally, blasted me, backpedaling frantically under the onslaught, halfway across the playground, up the ramp, and into the classroom where I was forced by the weight of her words into a chair, at a table, and left with my head pressed down on my crossed arms for the rest of recess.

A ten-ton torrent of words. Words like racist.

I remember her saying “Monica can’t help it that she’s black.”

My friend Monica stayed as close as she could.

I know, because when I finally stopped crying I could see her there, from under my right armpit, hanging on the railing, leaning farther up the ramp than we were allowed to go, trying to see if I was all right.

I wasn’t.

She stayed until Miss Kneeneighborly took her by the arm and dragged her away.

I had to stay there for the rest of recess. I had to stay there while the bell rang, and the other kids lined up outside, quieting down a lot faster than usual when they saw me sitting there. I had to stay there while Mrs. Chin led them back inside, and everyone sat down.

So everyone could see my shame.

Mrs. Chin came over, handed me a tissue, and let me go to the sink.

I blew my nose, washed my hands, and sat back down, while she went on with the lesson. Arithmetic, or phonics, or spelling, I don’t remember.

I remember that I kept my eyes down. I remember that I couldn’t lift my head, or raise my hand, or look at anyone. Not even my friend.

I don’t think either of us ever told our parents. I didn’t, anyway. You didn’t, in those days. Children were children, and adults were adults.  We didn’t talk back (much) and we did what we were told to do. By our parents and by our teachers. We had much tighter, more clearly defined boundaries. And, consequently, had much greater freedom (and were better behaved) than children do now.

Later that day, when we went to sit on the rug for storytime, Monica came and sat down beside me, like always.

And held my hand.

Like sisters.

I don’t know how to thank you, but thank you ♥

Someone did something for me recently that was so kind, so generous, so supportive, so loving, so unexpected, and so incredible, that I quite literally don’t have the words to thank her.

She knows who she is, and the world—my world—and my life is a better place for her being in it.

Thank you, dear friend. For loving me, for trusting me, for supporting my dreams. Always.

I love you!

xoxo

Life’s Been SO Good, part I

Day 24 and my tongue is still white.

Apparently, a white tongue, (which should eventually revert back to a nice and pink tongue again) is a sign that the body is still de-toxing.

I guess I have a lot of good living to cleanse.

It may have started freshmen year in college, when I discovered Ho-Ho’s. Or Junior Year Abroad, when we ate and drank our way through Germany (yum) and the rest of Europe. Ouzo, anyone? Fond memories of Rahmschnitzel, RitterSport, gyros, and Mandelhoernchen from my favorite Konditerei. Baumkuchen, and tortes and pastries of all kinds. That incredible, fresh bread! And hot pretzels. And hot pretzel buns. Hot, sugar-and-spice cinnamon almonds all winter. And chocolate, chocolate, chocolate.. (I have a whole TWO shelves of German cookbooks. Another of Swiss & Austrian. And all the recipes from my Oma, of course! ♥ )

It got worse during grad school, when I spend a summer as a intern in Bern, Switzerland. And lived across the valley from the Toblerone Factory. It was like coming home every afternoon to an entire valley filled with the inviting aroma of hot chocolate chip cookies.

I tried some strange and interesting new things; learned to make (always stir the cheese in a figure-8) and eat (never, NEVER drink water while eating) fondue, and risotto, and a great salad dressing that I still use; and generally had a great time.

And when I could graciously bow out of the full-fledged hot midday meal with my colleagues in town, I loved getting a fresh roll from the local baker, some chocolate at the Confiserie and sitting on the back steps of the Bundeshaus—the equivalent of the White House in Washington, D.C.—looking out over the river below.

Food didn’t become a big problem until I went back to Switzerland and worked in Zuerich for a year. It was cold, and wet, and rained for weeks and weeks and weeks at a time.

And that was summer.

(I once paid about $3.00—each—for a bag of California apricots. It was like holding the warm memory of the sun in my hands. Every bite was pure heaven.)

I didn’t share.

That winter it was REALLY COLD, and snowed and snowed and snowed. For weeks at a time. The man at the market laughed at me, because I was looking for fresh lettuce, and handed me a head of cabbage instead.

And pointed at the potatoes.

I would’ve dashed from building to building if I could’ve, but the sidewalks were icy. Lethal. The best I could do was a careful shuffle and slip. Or stay inside. A lot.

And eat.

The Swiss eat well—all year round. And exponentially more chocolate—it’s considered food, not an occasional ‘treat’ –than Americans do. (And this is real chocolate, remember. Not the chalk-and-paste stuff that Hershey’s tries to pawn off.)

Rich, full-fat, full-flavor, real cacao chocolate. They even have real white chocolate.

All day long.

Hot chocolate for breakfast. A chocolate bar tucked into the briefcase (just in case). Pick up out a few handmade truffles (mocha, praline’, and white chocolate champagne were my favorites) from the over 100 varieties at the original Teuscher Confiserie you pass by every morning on the way to work. A chocolate-filled Broetchen, or pastry in the afternoon, when the sun goes down at 3:30 and you need a little boost to make it through the rest of the day workday in the pitch dark.

Then a sweet snack for the trip home.

And chocolate fondue (after the cheese fondue for dinner) for dessert on the weekends.

Everyone has their favorite brand of chocolate—and there are jillions of them. Big, international companies like Lindt, and tiny, specialty houses who create only enough for a select, often subscription-only, clientele.

Different chocolates for every season, every occasion, and every possible taste.

On a regular basis the company I worked for took me on tours of their other holdings. Among them, of course, were chocolate and other confectionary companies. And sent me home laden with samples, bless them.

In my free time, I toured a couple of chocolate factories on my own. Like said Lindt. (Very stingy on the samples, they were.)

And it wasn’t just chocolate. Tortes, and pastries, and crispy little cookies (cookies dipped in chocolate, cookies filled with chocolate, cookies sprinkled with chocolate…) Marzipan and real nougat (the soft, chocolate-y hazelnut creme, not the yucky white stuff with fruit & nuts). Rahmcarameli—a Bern specialty—were a particular favorite of mine: little tins (I still have one somewhere) filled with little cubes of of a brown-sugary miraculous confection somewhere between a soft caramel, fudge, and the brown-sugar filling in those See’s chocolates that I can never remember the name of.

And then there were the cheeses—every shape, color, variety. Hard, soft, strong, mild, and those incredible creamy German varieties that are spreadable. And of course the breads—hot, crusty, fresh-baked everyday. Light and airy; rich and eggy; rustic and hearty; chewy and whole grain. (I did miss the pretzel buns from Germany, but I made do.)

In Switzerland (and Germany, and across Europe) people patronize a favorite cheese shop, a favorite baker, a butcher who has the best cuts and makes the best sausages, a green grocer who has the freshest produce.

Every region in every country has their specialties—wonderful things, unusual things.

Things I might not be able to get ever again…

What can I say? I went native. It wasn’t just the food—it was the lifestyle, the camaraderie. The wine and cheese and amaretti on a warm summer evening by the lake in Lugano; or fondue, or raclette by the fire on a cold night in Bern. Fastnachtskuechli and Zwiebeli  at Fasching (Karneval). And Kaffee und Kuchen on a Sunday afternoon in the garden. With friends that became like family.

I spent more than a year living on bread, and cheese, and chocolate, and…

I could go on and on.

And did.

Some really wonderful memories there.

Stuff that no cleanse can ever wash away.

And I think I’ll get my raclette grill out and invite a few friends as soon as this fast is over.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raclette

Octopus Hugs

I heard a really lovely story not too long ago. This is second, maybe even third hand (how fitting!), so I may not have all the details quite right. If not, I apologize in advance. What happened is this:

At any one time, the Monterey Bay Aquarium has two Giant red octopus on display. Each in their own, neighboring tanks. These octopus live about five years. They are one of the largest octopus species known: the ones in the Monterey Bay grow to have an arm span of 15 feet, which is plenty big enough, but the biggest specimen ever measured was more than twice that big, with an arm span over 32 feet wide.

Giant octopus are highly intelligent animals. In captivity they often form attachments to the aquarists who feed and care for them. The octopus can distinguish and recognize individual aquarists within two seconds of touching their skin with the sensitive tip of a tentacle.

A couple of months ago, it was time for one of the octopus, a large female, to be released back into the Bay.

She’d grown close to a particular aquarist (we’ll call her Sam), who was chosen to be the person to release her. Sam took the octopus out on the Bay and dove down into the water with her. At the appropriate depth, she opened the container and the octopus swam free.

The animal clearly understood what was happening to her. She “hung around” in the water near Sam for a few minutes.

As if to say goodbye.

Then she swam away and disappeared.

Sam went on about her business, doing whatever it is the aquarists do out there, examining, and measuring, counting and collecting. I’d guess for half an hour or so, maybe longer. And was probably a little sad. Or at least had mixed feelings: sad to see the octopus go, and glad that she’d been released to live out the remainder of her life in the wild.

When she was done with whatever her tasks were for that dive, Sam swam back in the direction of the boat and prepared to ascend.

And suddenly the octopus appeared again, swimming toward her.

This creature, who she’d tended for several years, and who she’d released to swim free in the vast depths of the Monterey Bay, came back.

The octopus swam right up to Sam, gently wound one long tentacle up and around her arm and, very gently, squeezed.

Once, twice, three times.

Then she slowly withdrew her tentacle, looked Sam in the eye one last time, and swam away.

Lasting Relationships, Changing Times

I got a catch-up email from a childhood acquaintance who found me online. She wrote that after nearly twenty years of marriage, she and her husband are still ‘fond’ of each other.

Although it was stated positively, it seemed a slightly backhanded turn of phrase. But it wasn’t more than a few weeks later that she mentioned that for every one of her birthdays, for every Christmas, and for every Mother’s Day since their son was born, her husband has written her a love letter.

That’s a lot of letters. Wonderful letters. She has a whole box full of ‘em. And that, it seems to me, says a lot about a relationship, about a marriage, about what ‘fond’ means to her. And they’re still married. They still make the choice, every day, to spend their lives with one another. That says a lot right there.

I wonder if she knows how lucky she is?

Part of me is jealous. Part of me is just beginning to realize how completely I don’t understand the process.

But I’d like the chance to learn.

I spent a wonderful couple of days recently with a beloved cousin who’s the closest thing I have to a sister. She spent a measurable portion of that time pointing out how completely clueless I am. We’ll skip the part about my hair (I pull it straight, back and up; she says I should wear it curly, loose and down.) And the clothes (I like to be put together, and comfortable. She says I need to go more casual, lower, and tighter.) And the lifestyle: I’m a bit of a hermit…well, occasionally downright anti-social. (Although another friend pointed out last year that I’m not anti-social, I’m just discerning. It’s all about the spin.) My cousin wants me out on the dance floor. Or at least out of the house.

But aside from all that, she’s convinced that I don’t even notice when, in spite of myself, other people (read “men”) notice me. That I never have.

She’s not the first one to point this out.

(Every since she fell madly in love & got happily married years ago, she’s wanted the same for me, bless her. If there were any less distance than the thousands of miles there usually are between us, I’m sure she would have managed it by now. She’s a real go-getter, that one.)

But left to my own devices, I seem to be falling short. And according to her (and everyone else I know) it IS for want of trying.

So maybe I shouldn’t have moved to a town the size of a very small private college and opened a business directed almost exclusively to women and children.

At first I was too happy and busy to notice that I was single. Too relieved to be in one spot for a while, enjoying a five-minute commute and coming home to my own bed every night instead of getting on another plane, and waking up in another hotel room, in another time zone, on my way to another meeting with another group of overgrown boys pushing and posturing their way to the top of the corporate heap.

When it did finally hit me, I looked up and realized that everyone around me was either “newlywed or nearly dead.” Or already married to their high-school sweetheart, a shiny happy little family with two-point-three kids, a dog, and a SUV (yes, it’s that kind of town), so the point immediately became moot. I got on with my life.

In my defense, I have met BOTH the single men in this town, and one of ‘em still has all his own teeth. (That might be exaggerating a tiny little bit. Not much.)

For a couple of years there, it was a little hard. A little lonely. A little desolate when all of your friends are married and their idea of a good time on a Saturday night is a Little League game and then pizza with 30 screaming kids at Gianni’s. I’ve been to more than my share of birthday parties, and ballet recitals, and really awful amateur theater productions. And I’m still not old (or desperate) enough to hang out at Mission Ranch. (Sorry, Clint.)

But lately things have been changing.

Toddlers are turning into teens and heading off into the wide world, leaving their doting everything-revolves-around-my-children parents at loose ends.

Friends whose weddings I remember are getting divorced. For some it’s a relief, a blessing. For others it’s not. For all of them it’s a change, a huge upheaval in life, and a sudden (or not so sudden) veering away from, or sometimes back to, the road originally plotted.

Even more tragically, in the past few years several dear friends have had terrible losses—spouses, parents, and most tragically, a child. A beautiful, beloved, magical, only, child.

So all of a sudden, almost ALL of my friends are single. Suddenly they ALL have time to play—all the time. They all want to go out, or to lunch, or to dinner, or the movies. And can’t figure out why I don’t always have time for them.

Because in the meantime, I’ve filled my life with other things.
I’m busy.

But maybe I’ve changed, too. I’m ready to meet someone special. Now. Someone to share my life with, someone to laugh with, someone to dive, and dance,  and travel with. Someone to cook for. Someone who can fix the door in the my office. Someone who loves horses, and dogs, and curling up on the couch in front of the fire.

Someone who writes love letters to me.

I suppose it’s natural at this time of year to be thinking about the things that change. And the things that don’t.

For now, I’m single. It would be nice if I wasn’t.

But I have cousins who are like sisters to me, a mother who’s a saint, and the best extended family anyone could wish for. I have a sweet, funny dog who’s always glad to see me and sweet, funny, wise, wonderful friends. For all seasons.

Family and friends. And faith. My life is full. And happy.

And I’m giving notice that there’s room for more.

Changing Friends, Changing Seasons

I asked a question about friendship the other day and it seems that I’m not the only one struggling with this issue. Not by a long shot. I  appreciate the wonderful, supportive, and thought-provoking responses I received. Thank you for every one. Some came from unexpected places, like far-away tropical islands and, in an odd bit of synchronicity, some came from old friends and acquaintances I’d lost touch with, who’ve found me recently because I’m finally online, spilling secrets and thoughts that I’ve always kept hidden.

So the world turns…

This is a topic I’m sure I’ll return to. But in the meantime, these two thoughts:

1. Reading the comments and experiences that you’ve been sharing with me, it occurred to me that this situation, like so many others, is really about integrity. That’s a big one. About being true to yourself, first, before you can be true to others. That unless you’re true to yourself, you’re really lying to everyone else. That’s a really different way of looking at it for me, and important enough to say twice: If you are not being completely honest about YOUR needs and wants, you are LYING to everyone, ALL THE TIME. 

How’s that for terrifying? If I think about it too much it makes me cry. Because it contradicts such core beliefs, and the way I’ve lived my life. I have always considered myself to be a person of high integrity, and it is a trait I value highly in others.  But I’ve always, “honestly” believed that in order to be a good person, you must put others first; that their needs, their wants, supersede my own. A result, I suppose, of my Christian upbringing, but not an uncommon value across many belief systems. I’ll keep working on this one.

2. My experience, and the responses to it, have also made me think about the nature of friendship itself, how we define the word friend, what it means to different people. Facebook uses the word ‘friend’ to mean…what? Anyone who has ever known you, ever known anyone who has ever known you, or has even a passing interest in any topic you might ever have been interested in? At best, that’s just creepy.

But at worst…..

More another time. I promise.

For now I’ll leave you with this poem, which seems appropriate for this experience. The original author is unknown—this is my version. My Buddhist friends would remind me here of two things, I think.

Impermanence – all things change

Remain in the present – appreciate what you are, where you are, and the loved ones with you, right NOW.

Reason, Season, Lifetime

People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you figure out which it is, you’ll know exactly what to do.

When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed, outwardly or inwardly. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, or to provide you with guidance and support, or to aid you physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

They may seem like a Godsend, and they are! They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrong doing on your part, or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they just walk away. Sometimes they act up or out and force you to take a stand.

What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled: their work is done.

The prayer you sent up has been answered. Now it’s time to move on.

When people come into your life for a SEASON, it is because your turn has come to share, grow, or learn. They may bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it—it’s real. But only for a season.

And like Spring turns to Summer, and Summer to Fall, the season eventually ends.

Some people come into our lives for a LIFETIME. They make our souls dance. Even through distance, we remain close. These are the relationships we should cherish and hold closest to our hearts. Lifetime relationships teach lifetime lessons: the things we build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation and create a life of worth.

Reason, Season, or Lifetime, friend. In each case, our job is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what we’ve learned to use in the other relationships and areas in our lives.

-Author Unknown

And the seasons are a’ changing.

♥

Losing a Friend…Getting Something Better

Ever think to yourself, ‘I need new friends?’

I’ve been going through an odd time, for a little while now. I’m basically happy, busy, and healthy. And at the same time, I feel like I’m in limbo, stressed and worried about all sorts of things, and mostly, incredibly frustrated that I’m not doing more with my life.

More and more I’m feeling like it’s finally all coming to a head. And that something REALLY incredible, really GOOD, is just around the corner.

If I could just GET there already!

That feeling’s been so strong lately, that last night, very late, I decided to go to the office and check my email one last time. Just in case. (?!)

And found a note from a ‘friend’ who said she didn’t want to be my friend anymore. Not exactly what I was expecting.

We’ve been friends for more than ten years. Like all friendships, you take the good with the bad. She’s critical, has a VERY selective memory, and, like most of us, wants everything on her terms—because she’s the only one who knows how to do anything right. I love her anyway. I make excuses for her; she “means well.” She’s the friend that can always be counted on to tell me the truth—not just the ‘you’re wasting your life and doing it wrong” variety, as well as the occasional “You’re too fat to wear that.” She’s also the “your eyes/hair/skin/smile look beautiful today” and “that was really clever.” She DOES mean well. She has lots of really wonderful qualities. I’ve treasured her friendship.

Without going into all the gory details, the inciting incident was that her husband behaved abominably, shockingly, UNBELIEVABLY, badly at dinner at my house. During the incident, my friend kept a bland, slight smile on her face, and watched me, not him, while he carried on and on. She said nothing. Did nothing. I’m a VERY good actor. I pretended to make light of, and diffuse the situation, while doing my damndest not to cry. I have never experienced anything like this before. I felt attacked— violated and betrayed—in my own home. I was embarrassed in front of my guests. The rest of the evening was strained, and it was a relief when they left. For the first time ever, I couldn’t walk them out. I couldn’t stop shaking.

She left a message the next day, apologizing for her husband’s appalling behavior. She hoped that I wouldn’t “never want to see” her again because of it. I called her back, to accept the apology and belay her fears. In that conversation, and in a subsequent email where she asked if I was avoiding her, I explained that I was hurt, and really rattled and needed a little break. I suggest that  we could wait another week or so for things to settle down and then get together when her husband had left town.  I let her know I was still dealing with a big problem at work 24/7. She didn’t respond.

Several weeks went by. Not unusual for our friendship—she often travels for weeks at a time, then comes home, calls me to either say she has no time to see me, or has a specific slot or two when she’s free and would like to see me at that time, before leaving for another week or two. I was still busy with the problem at work, and didn’t worry about it. In between, as is also usual, I sent her a couple of emails, articles I thought she’d be interested in, a book I’d ordered for her, and left a note on her car when I spotted it at Safeway. By the last email, I’d started to get worried and said I hoped she was ok.

And last night she responded. She wrote that by saying I needed some time, I had “not acknowledged” our friendship, instead having a “snit” and “shunning” her. She calls my behavior “sophomoric.” She thanks me for the things I’d sent, and says they show what a “dear and caring” person I am. She wishes me a long and happy life, but says “I think I’ll stay out of it.” That the friendship has “run its course.” (And could I please let my mom know, because she’d like to remain friends with her!)

Her husband never did apologize for his behavior.

As I’ve said, the last year or two has been an odd time, a time of transition for me. I’ve spent too much of my life trying to make other people happy. When I’d finally had too much, I withdrew. Almost completely. Farther and farther from my life, from people and places and activities and even professions. Even physically moving, twice, until now I live just one mile marker short of absolute nowhere. And then I worked on healing, and figuring out what I want. What makes me happy. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I’m working on it. I’ve come out of hiding.

And I’ve learned, once in while, to stand up for myself.

So I’m going to let what was becoming a toxic relationship go. Not without some sadness.  And a little relief. I’m trying to forget that earlier that same, disastrous evening, my former ‘friend’ started moving a collection of cookie molds around that I’d recently put up in my kitchen, telling me that I’d arranged them WRONG. I  told her how much time and effort I’d put into arranging each beloved piece into just the right place. And then, when I left the room for a moment, and after specifically being asked not to, she RE-ARRANGED them, so “it would look a little better.’” Not much, since according to her, the whole thing was set up backwards, anyway.

I realize that I’ve internalized her constant criticisms, the way she liked things done, to an unhealthy degree. It’s made me resentful, and increasingly reluctant to spend time with her.

In sharp contrast, I had  dinner a few nights ago with a dear friend that I also hadn’t seen in a while. She’s wise, and warm, kind and considerate, intelligent, and incredibly generous of spirit. It was a really nice evening. We had a great, real, conversation that gave me lots to think about. It was an evening that left both us feeling strengthened and nurtured by our friendship.  

Maybe my former ‘friend’ is right. Maybe our relationship has run its course, and the mature thing to do is to move on. To leave behind the clutter, the things that don’t serve us anymore. Or maybe I’m in denial. (Or shock.) Except for a high school girl who once sent me a note saying she ‘”would never be my friend again” because the boy she liked had asked me to the Prom, I have never heard of anyone else cutting someone out of their life this way. But I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. This woman, by her own account, has cut a number of friends and even family members out of her life over the years. She’s told me some of the stories—even referenced one in her email. So maybe it was inevitable.

But by removing herself from my life, she’s left a hole. In my heart, in my head, in my calendar. And a hole is just SPACE. Which means that now there’s room for something new. Something BIG, something incredibly, unbelievably exciting. Something wonderful.

I can hardly wait!