This took me three days to write, so forgive me that it is
long, and kinda all over the map. Maybe
you will understand.
I woke up on Sunday morning desperately lonely. Please don’t think this blog is now about
some poor-girl pity party. It
isn’t. Read on.
On Saturday, after having an experience that is all too few
in my recent years (my last blog, if you want to know what happened), I went
off and did some other wonderful things, all by myself. I shopped for clothes
(something I rarely do). I went for a
drive up the coast. I took out my
drawing materials and played with watercolor pencils I hadn’t gotten around to
trying yet, though I purchased them over a year ago. I rode my bike. I went to the movies. I read.
All completely delightful, and totally needed, and refreshing in a
personal kind of way that we all need once in a while. Especially in the happiness I had been
feeling since early that morning, and the adventure I had opened myself up to.
I could even use the word divine.
So Sunday, when I woke up, what I most wanted to do was
share that. And by share (I confirmed
with a friend via Facebook) was collaborate.
I wanted Sunday to not be about me, per se, but about the possibility
for connection and trust. About giving
and getting, without having to walk around any issues, or hide any feelings, or
pretend to be something I am not. Or to
ask, and for no other reason than convenience, have your really basic needs
rejected. I wanted someone else to
totally get what I was saying, and “share” their perspective and help me move
forward, as I was helping them. Staying
in the moment, because if I don’t have the time to do it right the first time,
when will I ever have time to fix it.
It took me a long long time to get motivated. I had woke up alone, in my house that was
empty, without any clue who I could find that piece with.
I was gratefully enough to find one friend that dialed back
after I had called him. I hadn’t left a
message, because my need felt too immediate to wait through a voicemail. I was lonely, and before I could move, I
needed a human voice.
It shocked me that at first, I couldn’t speak. The word “hello” came out more as a sob as I
realized I hadn’t actually spoken to anyone, not one person, in over 24
hours. All that time I spent in my own
head, and doing ONLY things for me had left a void. It had not made space for real connection. Real communication. Real people. Voices and words, and not typing
on a screen, or a post to the ether of a social media site. I had missed that PEOPLE in my life are not
just a function, but a necessity.
After he and I hung up, I made a plan for the day. A little experiment based on things that I
was unsure about from the previous 48 hours or so. Social connection or solitude? Friendships based in mutual dynamics leading
to deep understand, or head-clearing aloneness?
Me? Them? Us? How did it fit,
what did I want, where are my strengths, and what is missing? And when I have known what is missing, did I
ask for it? And more importantly, did I
ask the right person?
As part of my now motivated quest, I made some rules for
myself to follow for the rest of Sunday.
First, I had to try to see if what one person I know
suggested would help. (Trusting the
advice of others is part of the whole building real connection thing I am going
for here.) He said what works for him is going to the beach, and “seeing” the
white noise. My thought was that every
time I have tried one of those “white noise” machines I have only heard nails
on a chalkboard. It annoyed me, like
mosquitoes in my ears, and the idea of having that be my visual scared me. Would I get lost in the noise, or would it,
like it does for him, help you think of nothing? A perfect little tool of not
having to have the noise in your head at all.
So I went to the beach.
I tried to think of the waves washing over me, the light being just a
warm spot, of the noise from the crash of the surf as the only thing I needed
at the time. A way to slow down.
I failed miserably, if the idea was to see and feel
nothing. The thoughts in my head are
always there, always require my attention.
I noticed the way the sand felt under my feet, the way it shifted, the
grains, the change in colors as each swell retreated and the water absorbed
back into the shore. I noticed the
people, swimming, walking, playing. I
saw them getting wet, the legs on their pants changing from pale to dark. I noticed how their shirts pushed against
their bodies in ripples as the wind shifted.
I watched as the birds did the same, moving their bodies to give them
the balance and grace to stay aloft. I
picked up sea glass, but left the shells.
I smelled the seaweed and the ash from the night before’s bonfires. I heard the laughter.
And each little piece, each little space of someone else’s
experience was interwoven with mine. I
knew the sand, and could remember days at the beach. Foggy ones. Bright ones. Rainy ones.
Days filled with talk and play, and hand holding, and searching, and
every other thing I could have possibly done at the beach was right there with
me, right in that moment. There was no
white noise. The space was full.
I did learn a few things while there, though. 1) I have a
hole in the bottom of my (formerly) favorite sandals. 2) I can’t touch the
fronts of my knees and the backs of my heels together at the same time (admit
it, you just tried). If you just said
“yeah, um, duh”, then I have to confess that I have never tried this before, or
probably never even thought about it before Sunday. And 3) I don’t want to find the white
noise. I absolutely, without a doubt,
want to think, feel, see, hear, remember and know EVERYTHING. It is all going to be there anyway, so trying
to push it away in hopes that I can find nothing is not even remotely
appealing.
So this brings me to my second “rule”. I had to talk to people. There were no rules about what this talking
would entail, just that it would happen.
I was going to start conversations with anyone and everyone I wanted
to.
One conversation was between me, the sales lady, and another
customer in an art gallery, about these beautiful artisan made earrings, and
the story of calla lilies that inspired them.
We talked and laughed, and shared stories about our own favorite pairs
of earrings, and getting our ears pierced and our daughters. The lady and I each ended up buying handmade
earring the sales lady had behind the counter.
She apparently had been making these earrings for a long time, and was
too shy to ask her boss to put them out for sale, so she just had them in a plastic
bag near the cleaning supplies. This
could have been a really good sale ploy, but I doubted it. The woman was shy, and not at all confident
about just how much her artistry would be appreciated. She did not have them priced, and I paid $10
for my pair of silver and amethyst dangles.
I wore them all day, smiling.
Another conversation was with a man buying an antique lamp
for his wife for her birthday. He knew
what she wanted (apparently she had picked it out the weekend before, good
man!) and he just wanted to know why women liked these things. I thought the lamp was ugly, and told him so. He laughed and wondered how long it would be
before he could sell it at a garage sale.
He hoped she was not putting it in the bedroom because it was a serious
mood killer.
I overheard as the owner of another shop I wandered into
left a message on someone else’s voicemail.
He told the guy (I assumed it was a guy) on the other end that he
understood about never being able to reach him because of his overwhelming
social calendar, but did he realize that when he died, there would be no one at
his funeral because just because you are always busy with people did not mean
you actually had any friends (I have no way to describe just how much sarcasm
and humor was in this message, except to use the word “dripping”.) This cracked me up, made me sad, and was the
most perfect opening for a conversation I have ever heard. I asked the shop owner about his message, and
why the recipient of the message did not have any friends. We talked about how friends actually share
(see, there was a theme here) and connect.
I agreed, and told him that I did not expect anyone, and especially not
friends or partners, to have a clue what I need if I don’t bother to tell
them. They are not mind readers,
divining my desires out of thin air. We did both think that if we asked someone
directly for something we wanted or needed, and the answer was vague, or worse,
complete rejection, maybe we ought to decide if their role in our lives is
friendship, or just an event on a list.
Both would be okay, but confusing the two is what we both had a problem
with. In his case, the person he left
the message for really was just a social engagement, but that he enjoyed the
little bit of smugness that went with reminding the person of just how shallow
they really were. I told him that in my case, it seems I was
trying to ask for what I wanted, and I had recently either been getting
crickets or flat-out refused. We both
thought that maybe picking that kind of “friend”, one who wouldn’t or couldn’t connect
in any real way, could move over into the “pink pages” (so glad he knew the Chronicle reference) of
our lives.
After that conversation, I had one of those light bulb
moments as I figured out the lonely part of how I started my day. I want, no, I CRAVE the genuine
connection. Without it, I am feeling
lost. I don’t want a full social
calendar if the people in it are superficial.
Dancing is fun. But it is always more fun if you have someone (even just
one person) who also thinks the band is not really that good but will dance
anyway. Parties are fun. But it is always so much better when you find
someone (even just one person) who will sit on a couch in the corner and tell
you about that summer they spent on a crowded train on the way to Paris. A concert is fun. But it is always so much nicer when you have
someone (even just one person) who understands why you can’t sit on the blue
blanket, or why you need a band t-shirt in mint green. It would always be because some how you had a
connection. One that kept both of us in
the moment.
There is a line (from a country song, of course) about the difference
between being lonely, and being lonely for way too long. I am somewhere in between, but seeking the
connection. It is missing, and I know it.
So I am asking.
