Making Friends
When I was young, I wanted to be a cowboy. A solitary life on the range, with a can of beans, my guitar and my trusty horse seemed just right.
I did briefly consider becoming a Royal Canadian Mountie. The uniform did it for me, that stunning red jacket, so spiffy, so fitted. Surely, I would rescue all the maidens in distress and live happily ever after.
Fantasy was my first addiction.
I played alone. I was alone even in my fantasies, but for the women I rescued. Always the quiet, tender hero, I forever and silently saved the day for that one beautiful woman.
Exile was the oxygen of my childhood.
In its silence, I became a shy hero, the quiet butch.
I knew I was cast away, driven out of the normative, different than and cast out from Everybody Else.
The obstacles/opportunities that life gave me as a child, the double/whammy/blessings of having a speech impediment and wanting to kiss girls moved me to the side of things, the observer, the lost child, the lonely little girl with a wild imagination.
I have talked about her, this lonely child. I have written books about her, taught about her, run from her, forgiven her, welcomed her back into my arms, created programs based on her insights, run from her again, adored her, feared her, and spent decades in therapy learning how to love her.
Now is a new moment.
Now I get to live more deeply with that little girl who wants to be on the range, guitar and horse, alone.
Now without spouse, without girlfriend, without old community, tentative in newer friendships, I have a new roommate.
That little girl has moved in with me.
Somehow, the circumstances of my life, as I slide toward my 71st birthday, have loosened up this little child and plopped her, with all her ambivalence and fears and adorableness, right into my lap.
She’s shy and quiet and anxious.
That’s okay with me.
She wants to be with people but is afraid nobody likes her.
That’s okay with me.
She needs to play and have fun but isn’t sure she knows how.
That’s okay with me.
She wants people to see her but not really; she wants people to love her, but maybe not.
That’s okay we me.
I can be with her.
I choose to be with her.
I will abide her feelings.
I choose to allow her to be just as she is.
This is what I want to say to her, to Little Nan, that Little Me in the photo:
Honey, I see you.
I see you and I love you
Just as you are.
I will stay with you,
No matter what you are feeling,
No matter what is happening,
I choose to love and accept You
Just as you are.
Move right on in.
There is plenty of room here.
Let’s wrap up in blankies
And warm socks
And soft, funny hats.
Let’s keep ourselves
Warm and together
And ride the waves
Of winter
In each other’s arms.
I got you.
I am you.
You got me.
You are me.
I am
We are
Right
Here.
Nothing
Need
Be
Different.
You’ve got
A friend.
Here’s a song I’ve been listening to, that’s been bringing me comfort this week. James Taylor, our Berkshire neighbor and the indomitable, the lovely, that lovely older Jewish woman, Carole King. I can say that because I am an older Jewish woman.
Please join them both, and me.
You’ve Got A Friend, 2015 style.
Dear Folks,
Is there a part of you that you run from? I bet you STUFF, Money and Stuff, that life will create the circumstances for a reunion to occur, a homecoming between you and this exiled part of yourself.
Life’s job is to continue to support us in becoming whole.
I am committed, COMMITTED to walking into the winter with Little Nan, with her terror of being alone, with her overwhelming shyness. I will live into that, as best I can, because I believe, with every cell in my body, in this process of wholeness.
And telling you totally and fully supports that healing.
What would you want to say to that Little Child inside of you, that part of yourself you might still run from?
What are you noticing? How did this blog land for you? Do let me know. I am so delighted to hear your voices. I am aruni@rnetworx.com
With great gratitude to us, all—
From Aruni
