RW (Ralph Waldo) whispers to me: “Be audacious in your trust of the truth in his or her heart.”

For what gain? It isn’t easy to place one’s heart, one’s truth, in the care of another.  Yet, RW understands my motivation to break through my shyness. He wrote in an essay on friendship: “What is so pleasant as these jets of affection which make a young world for me again? What so delicious as a just and firm encounter of two, in a thought, in a feeling?”  Yep, he gets me. He also said, to be one’s friend, there must be truth and tenderness.

I have moved often and although it is wonderful to hold onto friends and reconnect by email or rare visits. I land in a new spot and it hits me, I am alone.  I cannot sustain this as I know my joy is deepest when in the company of a friend. I have met friends through work, volunteering, playing a team sport, joining a book or hiking group, walking my dog, borrowing a cup of sugar next door or down the road.  Over time, I notice certain qualities: It isn’t intellect, although her brilliance surprises, delights, and informs. It isn’t beauty, although she is radiant. It isn’t her sense of humor, although even when we find ourselves in the dark, one of us suffering, we inevitably laugh and in so doing, feel better.  It is trust; she capably gives and loyally keeps. It is tenderness; she sweetly imbues my heart, my soul.

My friend knows my truth as we weave in and out of subjects born of intention and pleasure: parents, siblings, death, food, religion, faith, travel – when can we go? Dating, art, sport, in-laws, kids, energy, politics, cancer, hardship, marriage, fear, sleep, thread count, betrayal, books. She knows my truth not because I speak or write eloquently, carefully, mindfully, but because I want her to.

I could write about any one of my dear friends and reap tremendous love remembering our shared time together, but tonight I am drawn to think about my oldest friend, Laney. We have traversed more than 5 decades together as playmates, sport mates, neighbors, confidantes, pen pals, friends.

I chose her.

She liked to smile, bigger, brighter when faced with a challenge.
She liked to run. To race.  To race fast. Faster than yesterday.  Who won?
She liked to play.  To build forts, throw balls, hunt golf balls for nickels.
She was kind, warm, sweet outside and in.
She was loyal, caring, curious.
She liked me. She loved me.  As I was, as I am.

We lived next door to one another in identical colonial homes, yet the life inside for each of us was very different. My house contained my big, boisterous Irish family. My parents hosted parties where most people held a glass half full of a jewel-colored liquid in one hand and a Marlboro or Kent cigarette in the other.  We had plenty of rugs and cabinets where we skillfully swept and hid all the mayhem and imperfection. Laney’s home was severely quiet, orderly, clean. Although her older sister, mother, and grandfather were there, I almost never saw them. Her grandparents’ living room furniture was covered in clear plastic to protect the deep red rose upholstery from our dirty hands and clothes.  I never saw anything out of place, including Laney’s bedroom where all her shirts, pants, underwear, and socks were folded, kept with care. I often wondered how she did it! Despite the differences, we were each welcome in one another’s home. Her grandmother was kind, calm, and somehow always knew when we were about to bound in. She met us at the back door and quietly reminded us to shed our dirty coats and shoes while she prepared a snack.  We sat at her small square kitchen table making faces out of our pieces of baloney or having nibble races with peanut butter crackers, always washing it down with fresh milk.

In our earliest era, bb (before boys), we enjoyed the simple physical pleasure of being together.  I remember our finding a particularly good hill, perhaps on the golf course behind Kennedy Jr. High and rolling down sideways like candlesticks.  We discovered the slapstick hilarity of clutching one another as we attempted to roll down as one. Speed and gravity would inevitably thump our rib cages together and shake loose a leg then cast both of us off in different directions.  We howled at the absurdity of even trying and then quickly raced back up the hill to do it again.

By the time we turned 10, we began to make other friends. Laney was a year ahead of me in school and so with decreasing frequency, we met up in the evening, weekends, summer.  Still, we were one another’s confidante. She knew my boy crushes and who I first kissed as I knew her romantic dreams and pursuits.

By high school, we began to talk exclusively of shared family, friend, and boy gossip.  We caught one another up. We chronicled our drama in notes folded into small triangles, letters, and eventually emails. Getting a card or email from Elaine is a moonshot of joy in my day.   I typically wait to open it when I won’t be interrupted, knowing it will be full of satiating detail about one of my favorite people on earth. Elaine is a kindred spirit, a trusted listener, reader, cheerleader for anything, everything in my life as I am for hers.

Ralph Waldo Emerson Essay on Friendship