In Honor of International Friends Day

I’m a little late with a post for International Friends Day, but, aw, what the heck. I want to keep friend energy moving through the planet because it is one of life’s greatest manifestations.

If I had to pinpoint my favorite thing about being alive (you just never know when you’re going to be asked random poignant questions like this, so I like to be prepared) I would answer that my favorite thing about being alive is relatedness, the chance to have meaningful relationships with people. And, well, good food. Just look at the summer salad I made the other day.

But, I digress.

The power of friendship and relatedness is a theme in my novel, OCD, THE DUDE, AND ME. Perhaps, consciously or unconsciously, that theme is present because friendship is important to me.

When I reflect back on my life—the good, the bad, the ugly, the really ugly and the transcendently perfect—what I see most vividly are the people who were with me in all those colorful moments. The moments have a tendency to recede into the background, but the people remain front and center.

This weekend I went to a friend’s 50^th birthday party, and a group of us sat around waxing philosophical about how it just can’t be possible that we’ve known each other for twenty-some years. But, yes, despite the few cocktails we had and our fuzzy math abilities, we realized it’s true. Holy cow. Like in a good way.

My favorite friend moments are the spit-out-your-drink laughter ones, but I value my friends fiercely through the tears-and-fears moments, too.  

As I move through my life, as the landscape changes, I’m thrilled to have my long-term friends and the new ones who are popping up thanks to serendipity. Changing jobs and publishing a novel has brought new beautiful people into my life. These recently acquired friends are expanding my horizons, helping me see in new directions and out further than I thought I’d ever try to peek. That is the gift of new friends: their presence means you are willing to walk new paths. They hearken adventure and represent a willingness to change and grow. Our old friends represent the richness cultivated by time. Their grandness in our lives emboldens and strengthens us for the adventures yet to come.

I have many, many names I could list who are these warriors of mine, these friends both new and old. I bow to you, collectively, in gratitude.  

I have one friend I met in kindergarten. She's on the left in the photo below having just ran a half marathon with another friend. I know. Shut up and you go girls! 

Four decades ago, Cynthia (marathon runner) and I sat next to each other on the first day of school, and we watched a scared little boy in the class jump out our ground floor window to catch his mom in the parking lot. He wasn't so keen on the whole school thing. I reacted on the other end of the spectrum with regard to that day. My mom said that when she dropped me off, I ran right into class without even looking back. (Sigh. Thus began a very long love affair with school for me. That moment pretty much cemented the fact that I was going to be a teacher. The rebel kid who jumped out the window is probably a multi-billionaire by now.)  

I met Cynthia on that first day of kindergarten, and we’ve been friends since. We were born six days apart in March of 1967. (Hope you don’t mind that I outed our middle-agedness, Cynthia.)

We’ve stayed friends even though we’ve spent the majority of our lives in separate cities way across the country. We stayed in touch while growing up; we were in each other’s weddings. We comforted each other through life's losses. I’ve watched her kids grow up in photos.  Here is her son in a brilliant prom photo. You could write a killer story about this shot, couldn't you? It's stunning.

 

Recently, Cynthia sent me a picture of my book that was in her local library in Lebanon, Ohio. That is a solid friend. 

Over texts the other day, we referenced our kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Franks. She was a sweet, wonderful teacher, and Cynthia and I both remember how we knocked on her door one day as young children when we were collecting items for a charity carnival we were planning. Cynthia and I were so excited when Ms. Franks opened her door and then donated an item: a bunch of dried orange flowers covered by a glass dome perched on a dark piece of wood. Forty some years later, I still remember this item and this moment. I remember how we pulled a red wagon up Mrs. Frank’s driveway and through our neighborhood so we had a place to keep all the donated items from that day’s work. 

Cynthia and I planned carnivals to benefit cancer research when we were really young. Seriously, I think the first one we put on was the summer we finished kindergarten.  Cynthia had a trampoline in her backyard, so we had at least one big ticket ride at that event! Who knows what compelled us to put on charity carnivals during our summer vacations when we were so young. We couldn’t have known as five-year olds that both our fathers would pass away, too young, from cancer.

I’m not writing this piece to be maudlin. I’m writing it to celebrate the special years of friendship I’ve had with Cynthia, that I’ve had with so many people. People I shared offices with, classrooms with, theater spaces with, yoga classes with, cyberspace with, all kinds of space with. I’m writing this to articulate the power of friendship, to say that it matters and that it should be cultivated more individually, corporately, and internationally.

Here’s to International Friendship Day. May its spirit linger all year, through all people and all places. May this spirit find new ways to relate, to connect, to share and to love through us.

My God, Jeff

Three days a week I drive along Burbank Blvd., and when I hit the area where the boulevard meets the 405 Freeway entrance, I see Jeff. He stands in a safe zone between where cars exit and enter the freeway. He’s an enigmatic gatekeeper dressed in a green hospital shirt and old pants, always leaning against the sign he has that doubles for a cane. His sign says he’s a veteran and “please help.”

I’ve gotten to know Jeff because traffic slows down in that area just long enough for me to pause and give him a little money, and, on some days, something to eat. Mainly, I exchange a brief conversation with him before traffic continues.

“How are you today, Jeff?”

“I’m good. Today’s a good day.”

“Do you have somewhere to go? Are you okay?”

“I’m luckier than most. I sleep in an old truck in a buddy’s backyard. I’m trying to get a job. Someday you won’t see me here, and you’ll know I’m working!”

“I wish you well, Jeff.”

“Thank you. Thanks for you.”

OR

“How are you today, Jeff?”

“I’m good. Somebody just gave me a fold-up chair. I’m so grateful. My last one broke.”

“That’s awesome. Have a great day, Jeff.”

“You, too. Thanks for you.”

OR

“How are you today, Jeff?”

“Today’s tough. My brother died. Pray for him and my sister, will you?”

“I will. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I know God’s with us. Thanks for you.”

            I have no idea about God. But, I do have an idea about Spirit, about Life, about a force bigger than me that infuses our lives. And Jeff embodies it and shares it.

            Today, after Jeff thanked me, I drove on to work and let tears stream down my face and Tom Petty’s “Learning to Fly” sing on repeat in my car.

            I am really grateful for Jeff. He always has a smile on his face, even when his days aren’t good. His teeth are bad, he walks with a limp, he fought in a war, he doesn’t have a job, his brother died, and he still manages to say thanks to me every day.       

Jeff’s sign reads, “please help.” It’s true. He needs help.

            We expect people to pick themselves up from the bootstraps of whatever pain and lack confines them. We expect people to hit the ground running and go get ‘em. As a society, we aren’t very comfortable with people who stand at our mercy and just ask honestly for some help.

There are lots of people who’ve helped themselves to all kinds of things, some of them decent, some of them not, but they’ve nabbed themselves a really solid life. That’s great. I guess. 

            There’s a greatness about Jeff, too, in his being-ness, in his acceptance of what is, in his gentleness. I’m writing about him, and I’m not sure it’s possible to experience his gentleness unless you see him. There are a lot of people in the world succeeding through dubious means and with dark souls. Jeff is struggling, but his spirit is light, and he’s filled with gratitude.

We all need help, but not all of us ask for it as blatantly as Jeff. Some people cry out for help through their wicked deeds or ignorant manifestations. I’m fine with the way Jeff asks for help. I hope to serve him in my own way, and I hope that makes a difference. 

"WE ARE LIVING ART, CREATED TO HANG ON, STAND UP, FORBEAR, CONTINUE, AND ENCOURAGE OTHERS."  Maya Angelou

           

Pernicious Woman

It rained a few days ago here in Los Angeles. I let the skies clear a little and then decided to go on a hike to manage “the bad roommate in my head” as Anne Lamott would call her. This voice, this pernicious, nasty voice, was giving me the business regarding all my flaws. According to her, there are many. On this day, she was in rare form pointing out how it seems next to impossible for me to keep my house clean, prevent typos in my work, go to enough yoga classes etc…all these really important things. Sigh. As I climbed up Fryman Canyon, I was giving this voice too much airtime, and, wouldn’t you know it, but another voice squeezed in there. It said, “Laur, did you ever consider that the voice that insists on perfection in every aspect of your life is a dull bit**? Just be a mess sometimes. Who really cares?” Yes! Yes, I thought. Now that is some sanity. AND THEN I TRIPPED AND FELL FLAT ON MY FACE IN A WET PUDDLE OF MUD AND HAD TO FINISH MY HIKE LOOKING DASTARDLY. That is exactly what happened. And, you know what? Aside from a few people looking at me funny, nothing else happened. I was muddy. Yep. Muddy. Like all life is until it bursts forth from the soil and moves toward the sun.

Here’s a great reminder about the dangers of perfectionism from the ever-wise Anne Lamott:

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it.”

Let them eat cake!

Because that is what we do in America when something is born. It's an excuse to be decadent. The more icing the better.

And when a book is born, I suppose cake with all that icing really is appropriate. Writing is a sweet gift in and of itself. It bestows personal, private blessings upon the writer; she grows by digging through layers for meaning and insight and consciousness. Writing is one way to do that kind of soul work. When something a writer writes gets published...that is delicious icing on the cake, for sure.

Welcome to the world, OCD, THE DUDE, AND ME! I wish you a meaningful life and promise to support you however I can from here. (I got you a cake. What else do you want? I'm kidding. You are young; sarcasm may not be appropriate yet.) Thank you for all you taught me while I was writing you.

We (the book and I) are grateful to all who have supported us thus far. We have the coolest people in our lives. Bless you. We also thank everyone who gets the book and gives her a read. We are super grateful for that.