Day 45 Reflection: Loneliness

Society treats loneliness like a character flaw: “You’re lonely? What are you doing sitting around? Go out and meet people.” As if a birding club will remedy the ache in one’s heart.

Ironically, loneliness is inevitable in today’s society. Our jobs take us far from our families, and often cause us to move before we’ve settled us into a place. Unless we buy a home, and often we can’t afford buying a home, we live in apartments where our neighbors move in and out. We spend our free time online, where we measure our friendships by “likes” and seldom have deep conversations. We meet our potential partners by swiping right, judging them by a picture and a blurb.

We spend our quiet times nursing the ache in our hearts.

In our solitude, we attribute our loneliness to personal flaws. We come up with erroneous reasons for our loneliness, isolating us further: We are too much this, not enough that. We are strange. We are not worthy. Our isolation increases.

We can ease our loneliness, perhaps even with the facile “go out and meet people” that society offers, but it will be hard work because we are swimming against the isolating currents of our society:

Sit in public places, even if you sit alone. Turn your attention outward, again and again. Say hi to people who notice you. Ask to pet people’s dogs.

When the sting of loneliness eases a bit, find reasons to be around people. Volunteer. Find a group that’s exploring something you’re interested in. You will not like everyone you meet in these opportunities, and that’s okay. The object is not to find one person who will keep you from being lonely, but to help you see that you are part of humanity. Friendship will come later as you find yourself in proximity with people you click with.

We were meant to be with people, even if our society makes that harder, even if our beliefs about ourselves and our loneliness make that harder.

Day 21 Reflection: Friendship

As I said in these pages before, my best friend Celia died about ten years ago (I’m bad with dates) this week. She taught me a lot about friendship.

We met at a professional conference as the two slowest graduate students. Celia dealt with arthritis through her back and hips, while I had a broken leg from being hit by a car.

The first thing Celia taught me is that friendship is unconditional. She accepted me as I was — at times giddy, at times depressed. She gave me moral support during that rose petal wine disaster when the siphon got clogged and I got drunk trying to clear it. She took me to dinner when my husband at the time dropped a bombshell that led to our divorce.

The unconditional acceptance went both ways. I accepted her movement limitations and assisted her where I could. I helped scrub her back in the shower when she recovered from carpal tunnel surgery in both wrists.

I accepted that she was an introverted bookworm and she accepted that I was a voluble one that took naps when I felt talked out.

I envied her her drive to excel scholastically — she was a research leader, while I was a follower who had been encouraged to work at Master’s 1 rather than Research 1 schools. We complemented each other in research, because I have always been very good with words and she had excelled at research design. I didn’t let my jealousy get in the way of our friendship — that was my problem, not hers.

The day she died of a heart attack, Celia had sent a message on Facebook for my wedding anniversary, and as far as I can tell, she sent it just before she called the ambulance. She didn’t make it, and her daughter called me later while I was out with my husband and a couple other friends. I didn’t cry, mostly because I felt numb and helpless.

It’s been a while, but I still miss her.

An Old Song

This song was written a long time ago about a friend with whom I had a shy, almost mystical friendship with. In real life, I wouldn’t go out with him because there was always a long line of irrational women in front of him, and he had briefly dated all of them. (He was a guitarist). But in my dreams, and occasionally in life, we had great conversations …

Turn the corner

to a street beyond a map,

walk much further

till our feet forget the path.

We have walked here

but only in our dreams,

Then we wake up,

Never knowing what it means

Turn the handle,

slide back the creaking door

while I wonder

if you’ve been here before.

Weathered iron

is rusting in its sleep

As we settle

in the silence that we keep.

(CHORUS 2x)

In the morning,

if the snow has turned to gold,

does it matter

to the secrets that we hold

1), then CHORUS 3-4x and fade

First Snow Lives On.

My husband read my passage on First Snow yesterday, and he asked a lot of questions:

“Did you get this ritual from somewhere?” I believe I invented it in December of 1984. There are friends of mine who now have their own rituals. Sometimes they post on Facebook and tell me they miss me. I miss them too.
“Do you celebrate it every year?” I’ve missed a lot of years. One time I was in the hospital and missed it. Some years we don’t get snow in November and December, and it seems too late if the first snow happens in February.
“What are the rules?” Funny you should ask:

There has to be enough snow expected to cover the grass outside — at least one inch.
You need one person minimum, and there’s no set maximum. However, as you can’t plan ahead of time, the number of participants is limited by who’s available. It’s harder to have guests as you get older or live in a small town.
You can either sit in the snow and cold, or bring a bowl of snow inside.
Participant(s) will toast with a beverage associated with wintertime. This includes, but is not limited to, eggnog, hot mulled cider, mulled wine, wassail, brandy, or blackberry brandy. Regardless of how many participants, there’s only one cup.You can fill the mug more than once. It’s a ritual; we don’t care about germs.
The cup is passed around in a circle. Each participant takes a sip of it and proposes a toast. The first toast is always “To the snow”. The last toast is usually very silly, as all the important things have been toasted to earlier. They get sillier more quickly if the mug contains an alcohol-based fortifying beverage.
The toasting ends when all the beverage is gone or all have run out of ideas for toasts. Or frozen to death.

Over the years, I’ve collected stories around First Snow. There was the year (ah! my college days!) when three of us decided to sit on the Old Stone Bridge in Champaign, a small arch over a creek, toasting the First Snow with a mug of blackberry brandy, swathed in an old sleeping bag — and in violation of park rules twice over, with the alcohol and the lateness of the hour. And then the cop showed up. I piped up and told him we were celebrating the first snow and this was hot cider. I babbled out the whole ritual to him. The cop looked down, likely incredulous, and instructed us to finish quickly. It makes me sad to think that if we had not been white college students, it could have ended badly.

The best toast ever was made by Jon Jay Obermark, on a balcony that bravely held eight people and a mug of cheap brandy (E&J, what else?). “To that star up there … and that star there … and that star over there!”

********

It turns out there will be a snow tonight in Maryville. A first snow for the season.

Richard and I will bring in a bowl of snow as the honored guest, and drink a mug of Irish coffee, my only alcohol for the year. Outside, darkness will press on the windows, and in the First Snow ritual, we will find the light in fellowship. The first toast we will drink will be to the snow; the second, to the people from our past and present, scattered all over the world.

“Through the years, we all will be together,

if the fates allow … “