I promise my friend, “I can get together today. Quality time, as usual. How ‘bout a walk at Mackworth island or at Audubon?”
We know what “together” means. We laugh a lot, cry a little, swear raucously when needed, then blush and pop our palms over our mouths when people hear us. “Oops,” we say, “sorry.”
A tall man walks past us and meets our eyes at the exact cursing moment, and says, “Yup, that’s the way it is sometimes.”
We all nod and smile.
I yearn to be with this friend daily, if possible, in nature preferably. When the planning starts, the, “hey, do you wanna….?” the brain says, “mmmm, this will be pleasant.” My body feels as if it’s received a high-five. Hand to hand, palm to palm. I grow a little taller. Even her text lifts me, “Today, 9:30?”
Basking in the natural world, and hugging as we do, grace us with more growth-in-connection gifts, the yumminess of human and earth contact. When one of us texts a cancellation because I have to pick up my son at the airport or she gets called into work, we respond, “Ok,” But we mean, “I’ll miss you.”
Another day, after a similar get-together promise, after the plan, I drive to her house to pick her up, to enjoy a few extra together moments. Yet, this day, I blurt to her, now in the passenger seat, “I have only half an hour today. Sorry, I have an appointment in thirty minutes.”
I spot her frown, her collapsed posture, her arms crossed over her chest and her newly squinted eyes. I feel the change in the energy between us, a silent disconnect. I say “sorry” again, and “I should’ve told you sooner.” But my friend’s face is stone.
When the bond to “other” wiggles even a little, my gut feels squeezed and empty. I miss “us.” I hunger for “we.” I am learning how normal this longing is, how naturally human, how we are wired for connection.
I ask myself, “Can I make space for feeling her frustration, for her silence, her withdrawal of eye contact? Can I/can we know that we do not have to fix our own or others’ feelings? My friend and I both feel abandoned and sad. I don’t feel heard; she is mad. Ugh.
Can we, or maybe how do we, feel a break in connection without pouting, without spitting out a wisecrack? Can I/can we feel an inner connection to our own feelings and just let them be? Can we feel inner and outer at the same time?
We arrive at Mackworth Island. We climb out of the car, breathe in the sea air, lift our eyes to the ocean. In unison, we both say, “Wow.” A connection to nature brings us into “we” again.
Something happens here, a deeper link that never breaks, a link sourced from a larger energy that connects. This force helps us lean into our own feelings and out toward others in a both-and, a not-only-but-also. Can we feel the embrace of whatever this huge relational field is? I wonder, in this world today, if this hug of a “we” and the tug toward “us,” might help us navigate breaks in connection. I don’t know the answer. I am trying to sit with “what if…?”
Each post in this Connection Collection will end with inquiries for you, the reader: How do you recognize connection? Where do you sense it? What does it feel like when it’s not there? What fuels connection for you?
I would love to hear your experiences, your stories. If you write and send them to me at sly313@aol.com, I’ll read them, savor them and answer. Let’s connect!
