Sometimes I think that dogs are more understanding than people….
The Writing Life, Books, and Things That Make Me Go, "Ah"
Sometimes I think that dogs are more understanding than people….
We were instant friends. As though we were simply picking up where we left off when we knew each other in some former life. I love it when that happens. Truth be told that it doesn’t happen to me often. But Jenny, she’s the real deal. She’s smart, funny, kind, sweet, silly and really all the things you want a friend to be.
She’s lived in Texas for the last 12 years which makes it hard to stay in touch. You get so wrapped up in your day to day life that you forget you haven’t talked in months. Or when you do call, she’s not home, she’s working, her kids need help with the homework. Or I haven’t left my computer for the last six days because I’m trying to meet a deadline. Or we’re both just too damned tired. Or. Or. Or.
But by some luck, an unexpected configuration of the stars and planets, the fickle finger of fate sent her west for some business. And we’ve had three glorious days to reconnect. Nothing special. A pig out at the local Sizzler. A late night Tom Cruise movie. Dinner at my house. Ice Cream at Baskin Robbins. It doesn’t matter because just hanging out with her is like remembering who I am. It’s a great gift of the universe to be in the presence of someone who gets me. And who I get. I’ve laughed more in the last three days than I probably have in the last six months. Hell, even my dog is happier when she’s around and my dog is the happiest dog on Earth.
In couple of days she’ll be heading back home to the husband and kids. To Texas. To the faraway again. I’ll probably cry because having her these few days has reminded me just how much I love her and miss her. Still, it’s a gift to have such a wonderful friend. No matter how much time you get to spend with them. It’s a joy to hang out with someone you don’t have to explain yourself to or with whom you can just sit, without even talking and feel at home. Feel the best parts of yourself gurgle and sparkle.
And I’m thankful. And I’m grateful. And Jenny…I love you, girl.
Do you have a friend like Jenny? Then what are you waiting for? Tell them you love them and that they’re the best. Because let’s face it, our friends the real treasures of our lives.
Friends are the best and what the heck would we do without them? But we’re so busy all the time and there’s always so much to do, we sometimes don’t say the things we should to our friends. So, I’ll say it here and now.
I am not your friend because you are always happy, cheerful and care-free. The truth is I love you even when your warts are showing.
I think you are a wonder even when you can’t control your anger, sadness or depression. I respect you because you can feel deeply and feelings are neither good or bad – they’re just feelings.
My wish for you is that you are always happy and that life is a continuous adventure. But I know that sometimes you aren’t and it’s not. But that’s okay because I still love you. (Even if you have gained 50 pounds and can’t give up the chocolate.)
I want you to always feel loved but I know that sometimes you feel alone.
I want you to know you can tell me anything – even the the things you keep from me because you don’t want to be a bummer.
I want you to spread your lovely wings and fly. But I understand that there are times when wings break and the back-ups are at the dry cleaners.
Why do we try so hard to be perfect? Don’t you know that you are perfect just as you are in all your wonderful imperfections? Well, you are.
To all my wonderful friends – you are truly special people.
I’ve come to realize that my world in the last several months has been a sort of protected secret. A restricted area where few were allowed passage. And I’ve had to ask myself why. I may be right or I may be wrong but I believe the following sheds some light – at least for me.
About a year ago something unthinkable happened – a friend almost died.
“Dear Friends” the email began – and those words, changed my life forever.
The day was beautiful – perfect- and as I sat at my computer in my sun-filled room I saw nothing but darkness. The flowers in the vase on my table died as I stared at them, unseeing – grasping for the ordinary – the normal – knowing I would never again have it back in my possession. Not really.
The azure sky and the aubergine mountains closed in on me and were like a noose squeezing the joy out of everything I held dear. My possessions, once the source of comfort and stability, became dangerous and threatened to hurt me because everything reminded me of the pain I felt of losing an irreplacable friend.
My blue walls became an ocean that drowned me as I fought for air for lungs already filled with tears. The guilt of my weakness and grief robbed the little oxygen I had left and I’ve not felt the easy action of breathing in and out since. I must tell myself to ‘breathe.’ Often, I don’t succeed. Because in that moment a door shut. No. Slammed. And something in me died – the death throes of that moment still rattle in distant brain cells that refuse to go quietly.
Moments, days, weeks, months have blurred one into the next. So much so that I couldn’t tell you what’s happened in my life, except in the most general terms, in the last year. I can say that I’ve felt like a woman submerged in a deprivation tank of perception and senses. Things once light became dark, things once clear became dull. No matter where I go, what I do or see, everything reminds me. How can that be? And yet it is.
Speaking of it and attempting to express it has only added nails to the coffin because it was my job to be strong. For her. For her children. For her family and friends. It was my job to fix this terrible mistake that life had perpetrated on us. My job to find the answers to why. Why? Why? Why? Why did this happen at all? Why did this happen to her?
No amount of comfort, sympathy or soul searching has answered that question, leaving me with the conclusion that we aren’t meant to know some things before their proper revelation. Which makes me wonder if the ‘truth’ is a wholly subjective animal that changes on a moment to moment basis rather than something carved in universal stone. A creature which will remain illusive as long as I chase after it. As long as I must find it.
But the truth cares not to show its face to anyone and rather prefers to taunt and torture all of us into submission and fetal positions of the soul. Running from it and the reality of what has happened has brought no relief either. Instead it brings more pain and confusion to my doorstep and camps there now like a squatter claiming real estate that belongs to another.
Yet also, I see that in this nightmare there have been miracles. True miracles. For which I am grateful beyond description. Her irrespressible spirit denied death its prize and she survived – and reclaims her life one small piece at a time. She is not satisfied – ever – and is relentless in her pursuit. But I see each small victory as a blessing and a gift from God or the angels or the universe. And pray for more every day.
And now I choose to focus on the miracles and maybe that is what God intended from the beginning?
A blog about writing, publishing, self-publishing and bookish doings by Roz Morris
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Fantasy writer - Bibliophile - Daydreamer
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