a breathtaking view

I was just listening to Ani Difranco and as can be expected from her lyrics, she offers insightful advice about relationships (and, of course, this applies to the variety of relationships that comprise life—not just the human ones, but maybe that's beside the point). She says, once "we were done clinging to the things we were afraid to lose . . . the only thing left was a breathtaking view."

This morning I read one of Courtney's recent posts and it really paralleled with places my mind has frequented this week. I have been caught up—almost entangled—in thoughts of past friendships this last month. And I'm sure this renewal of wonder about lost people in my life stems from a recently ended friendship in July with R.

As Elizabeth Gilbert astutely points out in her memoir, Eat, Pray, Love: "What a large number of factors constitute a single human being! How very many layers we operate on, and how very many influences we receive from our minds, our bodies, our histories, our families, our cities, our souls and our lunches!" My friend R was dealing with an ongoing presence of stressors in her life, such as 1) a long term partnership that was less than emotionally and romantically fulfilling, but still familiar and monetarily supportive, 2) a relatively new business that was a lot of work without the hoped-for financial return to help support herself, 3) a new move, 4) depression, 5) perhaps other stuff, too, that I was less aware of. While the end of our friendship took me by surprise and saddened me, I felt like I should just let go gracefully, understanding that relationships follow their own cycles and we all have numerous influences that play into our attempts at maintaining balance in our lives.

My mind logically knows that this is the path of all relationships. People's interests and needs match up: they garden together, collect seeds, turn compost; meet for morning walks, afternoon bike rides; talk about their daily moments, their problems, and neuroses; laugh together; make fresh pasta; discuss books they're reading; drink wine; watch musicals, sing along; hatch plans that offer hope or motivation . . . .

Obviously this list differs depending on the relationship. :-)

Speaking of relationships in her recent post, Courtney writes, "I really enjoy trying to keep in contact with people, even though, very frequently, this means years and years pass between communicating with people. I think one of [the] things about being more introverted means that when I do form friendships, they tend to be really deep, meaningful, and heartfelt. Even when I shallowly communicate with someone, it means a lot to me (like how sometimes waving thank you to a strange driver can make my entire day)."

But with the synchronicities of relationship cycles, also comes the divergence of people's lives. At some point—maybe after only a few months, a year, a decade, or many decades—their interests and desires, their life circumstances, don't mirror one another's; their life cycles don't match up. They stop talking, relating, sharing . . . whatever it is. They find different people to meet their needs, to learn their secrets, to support them in their lives.

Theorizing about the guilt, the wondering, and the attachment that ties her to past relationships, Courtney comes to the conclusion that, "I really just want to be friends with everyone (even Dick Cheney, I was thinking, this morning. There has to be a whole slew of reasons that could explain Dick Cheney.)! But a) that's logistically impossible even while b) it's, on a non-physical level, already happening, c) perhaps not the clearest way to uphold boundaries, and d) often discouraged by people I hold dear."

And maybe this is what I crave, too, Courtney; I think you've just articulated the simplest (and most complicated) of desires. I want to be on good ground: with strangers, acquaintances, family members, friends, lovers—and, specifically, with people whose friendships have dissolved from my life, ended abruptly or dishearteningly.

Without concerns about "what is okay" or appropriate for people who are no longer bound by friendship, I want to enjoy their presence, to be glad to see them, if ever I were to happen upon them on the street or in the grocery store. I don't want to feel the pervasive sense of awkwardness: not understanding what ground we share, what ground we do not share, unsure of what complex feelings they hold regarding me and our lives that were, for a period, intimately intertwined. While I understand relationships through the metaphor of cycles, my emotional self has a harder time letting go gracefully, once the cycles actually diverge. I am attached. I still wonder about these people who were once central in my scheme of enjoying and finding comfort in my life. I still care about them.

I wonder, what is so-and-so up to right now? I think, if I could just peek into their lives! I blindly daydream about what activities they're currently involved in; in what ways they care for their emotional and physical bodies; how they feed their imagination; what moments, what words instigate their laughter or provoke their anger. I speculate about their patterns: Do they still have the same fears and hang-ups? Do they feel that they know themselves any better? Have they become more open or closed, more vulnerable, more walled?

It's not that I hope to begin fresh friendships with these people or to rekindle past friendships—this is not what I want. I just want to know they are content, experiencing joy, or finding comfort like I am. That we are on good ground: that it's okay to care about them, even though we no longer participate in each other's lives. To know that every so often I can pick up the tangle of memories, hold the weight of it, examine the confused, interlocking strands that remain tied to my heart, and feel gratitude for the good ground, the intimate ground, we once took pleasure and solace from standing on.