Friends Lost but Not Forgotten

In rereading the journal I’ve kept for most of my life, I came across Maggie, a coworker with whom I became friends with when we worked together at a weekly newspaper. She was younger than me, and I like to think that I taught her some of the rules of the trade.  Remembering her, some 30 years later, I felt a fondness that I had forgotten or didn’t know was there.  

I wondered what happened to her. Did she ever have children like she wanted? Did she ever move on in journalism, become the writer and editor she was destined to become? Would she remember me, and, if so, as someone who helped her battle the powers that be?

I have a friend who, in his mid-80s, has made strong efforts to connect with old friends. In his older age, he is flooded with memories—of a friend he met in the military, of a college classmate and even an old flame. Using Google, I’ve helped him find some of them, but others are lost to history. Some wanted to reconnect; others were happy to let old relationships lapse. I thought he was doing this because he’s been lonely ever since his wife died two years ago but I see something else.

As we reach the end of our lives, I think there is some need, some yearning, to connect with people who were part of our lives, whether co-workers, classmates or friends. Maybe it’s as simple as putting our lives in order and tying up relationships that were never completed. Even if people are no longer in our lives, we can acknowledge to ourselves the relationships and their importance. I would love to know the rest of Maggie’s story, and every other person who I felt close to.

A prominent spiritual teacher says that all the people we have known have contributed to who we are, often in some unknown way. In our older age, imagine how many people we have encountered–whether friends, coworkers, lovers, neighbors, fellow dog walkers, medical healers, even members of our book club–who have pushed us, inspired us, infuriated us and maybe gave us more insights into who we are. Our encounters with them changed us a little or a lot but, in any case, left an indelible stamp on us.

Last spring I took a walk in an old neighborhood where I once lived decades ago, a historic neighborhood with modest brick Victorian houses and yards that had been well tended, with overflowing bushes, varied flowers and trees that had protected this neighborhood for at least a century. Maybe it was the spring day or my mood, but I felt overwhelmed by memories of old friends who had lived here.

There was the house where Diana lived. We were good friends once, part of a writing group, but then she moved away and we lost connection except for a slim one on Facebook. A few years ago she died of cancer. There’s no way to feel her presence unless I stood in front of her house, a small bungalow, until someone came out and asked if I needed help.

Down the block a different Diana had lived. She wrote theater reviews for the newspaper where we worked and often invited me to join her. I am grateful for how much she taught me about theater. Decades ago, she also moved away and I think has since died.  All that’s left for me is her wonderful old Victorian house with the wrap-around brick porch.

Three blocks down is the house where an old friend still lives. Many decades ago we had a terrible falling out, yet I still carry so much tenderness, after our long friendship, that I hoped to see her in her front yard tending her garden. If I had seen her, I might have dropped all feelings of embarrassment and even hurt and hugged her as hard as I could.  

As we near the end of our lives, we realize the joy of relationships, of being close to others, of knowing another person in all their humanity, of the importance of love. Hopefully, we’re able to leave behind the judgments and petty feelings we had when we were young and see old friends in a more generous light. We can let our hearts swell with affection, especially after we’ve lost so much.

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Staying Home

I recently took a short trip not too far from home. It was mostly a familiar landscape with a few new additions. I was eager to get out of the house, and even familiar trips can offer a different experience: landscapes seen in a new light, conversations with strangers who I briefly bond with; dining at new and familiar restaurants, where I can try new meals; and staying at an old-fashioned motel where our room faced softball fields and an osprey nest on a tall light pole.

It was fun and not too adventurous for an old woman, but I found myself longing to just sit in one place: maybe at the lake with the startling view of the high peaks; or the river where I heard bird songs that were new to me and could watch joggers, mothers pushing baby strollers, fishers, and young and old couples.

Instead my friend and I ended up driving for hours trying to get to the next place, and missing dinner in our need to get home before it got dark. We drove past towering red cliffs and along a wide river; through a lush meadow like I’ve never seen in my home state; and through an old mining town—but it all went by too fast.

When I got home, I was happy to just settle down, sit in the backyard and listen to the birds, continue decluttering the house, and sit at my desk and work on my computer while I paused to stare out at a familiar landscape—the field behind my house and the mountains in the distance. Though I saw many spectacular places on the road, I’m happy to enjoy this one, which is so beautifully familiar.

Is this something that happens as we age? I’ve always loved seeing new places, and I still do, but I’m more content now to enjoy the place where I’ve lived for more than five decades. I know our brains slow down (at least mine has), so it takes longer to absorb the world, especially this fast-paced one.

My friend Elaine, who is 92, is in a memory care place. When I visit her, she’s either lying on the bed or sitting in a chair next to an iPad where photos of her family scroll by. She seems content to be doing nothing or very little. Maybe it’s enough that our brains are filled with all the people we’ve known, the places we’ve lived and our work life (even if we don’t remember them all), and we don’t need anything else. Maybe we just need to sit with our life experiences and absorb them.

My friend John used to climb the highest mountains in the national park, and now he’s not interested even in driving through the park, sitting at their bases and looking up with wonder at the summits. At age 88 he’s got a different routine: reading the night away; meeting friends for lunch in town; taking his recyclables to the sorting station where he enjoys his conversations with the man who staffs it; and, of course, endless doctor appointments. His life has slowed down enough that, he told me recently, he just started noticing clouds.

There’s a pleasure in routines: seeing the first light in the east as I make my breakfast, watching my cat enjoy his first meal of the day; my daily meditation; my afternoon walks on my favorite trails; even trips to the grocery store. I look forward to my weekly Silver Sneakers class and getting together with old friends at our favorite happy hour spots.

When I stop trying to get ahead and rush to the next place, I find a deep contentment of where I am in my life now, a willingness to settle down with the person I’ve become.

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Writing Our Own Eulogy

A friend died recently. I wasn’t able to attend her memorial service, but her sister sent me the eulogy, given by Sandy’s best friend. Or at least that’s what I assumed, as the eulogy was read by Anne, her life-long friend, and it referred to Sandy in the third person. Only later did I find out that Sandy had written the entire six pages. She had suffered from a terminal disease for decades and had been in Hospice for more than a year, so Sandy knew the end was coming and had plenty of time to craft how she wanted to be remembered. Or at least how she wanted to make a final statement about her life.

In the eulogy she enumerated her accomplishments—both big and small–including art director and teacher; waitress; woodworker; novelist; contractor and builder (she built her own cabin in the mountains). Spiritually, she started out as a Presbyterian, studied Buddhism and was drawn to the Quaker philosophy. There was so much I didn’t know about her, and I wish I had.

She chose one story to tell about herself: Before leaving on vacation, she covered her lilac bushes with netting to keep the deer from eating them. Unfortunately, a bull snake got stuck in the netting, but when Sandy returned she figured out a way to get the snake out without hurting it (and herself). The story showed her sense of humor, bravery and love of animals, but I wondered why she chose that one out of all the stories she could have shared with her family and friends after her death.

And it made me wonder which stories I would tell about myself, if I chose to write my own memorial. Out of everything that’s happened to me, would I choose something humorous that would entertain people, or some life lesson that I want to share with my family and friends? Which accomplishments would I list—learning how to kayak? My interview with a famous photographer? Becoming adept at meditating? Just like writing your memoir, writing your obituary makes you look back at your life—hopefully with pride but also a bit of wisdom.

Maybe one of the pleasures of writing your own obit is controlling the narrative, so you can imagine the looks on friends’ and families’ faces—either fondness, sadness or some combination– rather than not having any idea of how you’ll be portrayed.  It’s better than a random anecdote on one’s online memorial page. I can only imagine the stories someone, such as a neighbor, might post. I’m probably not the first person to talk to the animals in my yard but I rather not have my lasting memory be of the old lady who asked the birds if they wanted more seed or the squirrels how they liked the apple pieces I threw out of the window.

Sandy isn’t the first person I know who crafted their own eulogy. After my former neighbor died, I found his obituary in the local newsletter: “By reading these words, you’ve probably figured out that I’ve left this life and am headed to my next destination.”  Dan wrote about his childhood growing up on the family farm and what it meant to him, his work as a pharmacist, and the last few years of his life doing volunteer work, including at a shelter that cared for the homeless and where he donated his truck. He ended his piece in his characteristically folksy manner:

Well I could go on for a bit more, but, frankly, I’m really tired and ready to get outta here. Time to git ‘er done, if you know what I mean. Much love to all that I cared about and cared for me in return. Y’all have been great. You made my life good to the end.

What’s the best way to take a bow out from the world? Leave them laughing or crying?

One of the last sentences in Sandy’s obit was “If people say upon my death that I was essentially kind, then I’ve lived a good life.”

That seems like not much to ask for. May we all be so modest in our obituaries.

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