I've been thinking a lot about friends lately.
Obviously, some of that is explained by the post right previous to this in which I note losing a great friend. Less obvious is the reality of how that situation revealed friends. There were those who knew enough to say just a little, but to know how much the situation affected me. There were those who knew they were closer still and could expound on their view of the relationship and express their condolences.
And there were those who ignored the situation. I'm glad they did. Because it helped clear my vision of the nature of our relationship, something to which I can blind myself.
The combination of all that made me stop and think about friends again. We live in a world in which friend may have been minimalized. Social networking such as Facebook leads us to make the word a verb and "friend" people we barely know. It over expands our list of friends to include entire other genres such as acquaintances, business associates and people to whom we only nod in real life. For those who fear offense, it can lead to even enemies making a "friends" list because they don't want to hit that ignore button and instead sheep-like accept an offer.
With all that in mind, I not only thought about whittling my alleged friends list, but stated it was a process I was conducting. That too was educational. I had direct requests to not eliminate specific people, people who I would have thought were so on the periphery they could care less. Some people gave reasons for asking me to continue to consider them friends, even though we hardly communicated. Those said they silently maintained connection via things such as this blog or visible conversations with others. They weren't that comfortable participating, but wanted to keep the pipeline open.
And I'm certain there were some who didn't state it, but prayed they would be removed from any connection because they'd had enough of me.
But there was one specific other that blunted my cynicism. One that made me think through friend with a more open mind, to give me the courage to be friends.
We hadn't crossed paths in decades, and even then it was glancing. We had re-established a dialogue and found growing up in the same place at the same time sets a template that is an automatic connection. During the final days of my good friend's life, that person kept an eye on me. She offered experience, advice and quite simply a crutch. And when it was over and I had to deal with the reality of one friend being gone, she was a new friend who I quickly came to believe was there if needed. A pretty good definition of friend.
She wasn't someone I would have thought of as a friend. But she was a friend in waiting. Her time for friendship just hadn't arrived.
She taught me to not be so rigid about my friends. She helped me see that not all friendships are stated or obvious or even yet in existence. The only friendship that isn't for certain is the one I won't let be.
I still don't believe I'm friends with everyone. I still believe friendship is earned on both sides. But I don't think of it as obvious as I may once have.
I have to believe I have more friends than I know. And hope more people think of me as their friend than I let.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sam
Sam was a confused pound puppy when he came to me. Well, I say puppy although the age is uncertain coming from an orphanage. He might have been two then.
From what I can put together, Sam had been adopted from the pound, brought back, adopted again and again brought back.
By the time I came around, I thought his demeanor was “what did I do wrong?” His method of communication in that cage was to simply walk up and lean on me.
I guess some type of cocker mix, but who knows what else. He had this big droopy mustache. Therefore, Yosemite Sam. Yosemite Samuel P. Puppy for formality.
The day I was to pick him up for adoption, they opened his cage for cleaning and he made a break for it. They pinned him against a fence and grabbed. Just as I would have, he bit them.
That earned him several weeks of isolation, allegedly to ensure he didn’t have rabies. (If he’d been previously adopted from there, and they require inoculation, didn’t that mean they knew it wasn’t possible?)
When he’d served his time all alone with no visitors, he was greasy and angry. In fact, I believe psychologically damaged. He wouldn’t allow anyone to pick him up. To go home, we had to fight to put him in the back of a pickup for the ride.
We stopped at PetSmart for some type of cleaning materials to at least make him not smell. We walked through the store and as we checked out, he looked up at me. And in his mouth was a yellow ball he’d pilfered from one of the bottom shelves. Guess he’d made a choice.
That type of dichotomy never left. He was thrown out of two grooming places for bad behavior. But he wouldn’t touch a trash can or walk out a front door unless you put a leash on him. Even I could not pick him up. But I was essentially only one he ever “kissed” in a decade.
Sam and I rode quite a roller coaster. Lots of people coming and going in our lives. There was one lady he grew used to coming to his home most early evenings for awhile. There was a couch in front of a big window out front and just about 6, he’s hop up there and watch for the vehicle to arrive. When she and I ended, he continued watching from about 5:45 to 6:30 for about two weeks. But then seemed to decide it was he and I again, and that was okay.
The last couple of weeks were harder on Sam. He’d always had a heart murmur and that condition worsened. Like many cockers, his hips were so weak I don’t think I’d ever seen him run. They began to betray even his interest in walking into the yard, much less farther.
When he reached that point, the slightest stairs or slick floors were too great a challenge. After more than a decade of maintaining pride and independence beyond even most pets, he let me pick him up and get him to the places he needed to be. Even seemed thankful.
When Sam and I joined forces, we were damaged. But we each gave each other little bits to try and work on that. Despite being betrayed so many times through his life by people, in the last days he gave me the ultimate trust of carrying him. And despite being a 52-year-old Texan man who has some belief you need to stand strong and deal with your emotions, I’ve cried more in the last week than possibly in the majority of my life.
Sam found trust and I had to deal with my heart. I think we’ll both take those gifts and hold onto them.
From what I can put together, Sam had been adopted from the pound, brought back, adopted again and again brought back.
By the time I came around, I thought his demeanor was “what did I do wrong?” His method of communication in that cage was to simply walk up and lean on me.
I guess some type of cocker mix, but who knows what else. He had this big droopy mustache. Therefore, Yosemite Sam. Yosemite Samuel P. Puppy for formality.
The day I was to pick him up for adoption, they opened his cage for cleaning and he made a break for it. They pinned him against a fence and grabbed. Just as I would have, he bit them.
That earned him several weeks of isolation, allegedly to ensure he didn’t have rabies. (If he’d been previously adopted from there, and they require inoculation, didn’t that mean they knew it wasn’t possible?)
When he’d served his time all alone with no visitors, he was greasy and angry. In fact, I believe psychologically damaged. He wouldn’t allow anyone to pick him up. To go home, we had to fight to put him in the back of a pickup for the ride.
We stopped at PetSmart for some type of cleaning materials to at least make him not smell. We walked through the store and as we checked out, he looked up at me. And in his mouth was a yellow ball he’d pilfered from one of the bottom shelves. Guess he’d made a choice.
That type of dichotomy never left. He was thrown out of two grooming places for bad behavior. But he wouldn’t touch a trash can or walk out a front door unless you put a leash on him. Even I could not pick him up. But I was essentially only one he ever “kissed” in a decade.
Sam and I rode quite a roller coaster. Lots of people coming and going in our lives. There was one lady he grew used to coming to his home most early evenings for awhile. There was a couch in front of a big window out front and just about 6, he’s hop up there and watch for the vehicle to arrive. When she and I ended, he continued watching from about 5:45 to 6:30 for about two weeks. But then seemed to decide it was he and I again, and that was okay.
The last couple of weeks were harder on Sam. He’d always had a heart murmur and that condition worsened. Like many cockers, his hips were so weak I don’t think I’d ever seen him run. They began to betray even his interest in walking into the yard, much less farther.
When he reached that point, the slightest stairs or slick floors were too great a challenge. After more than a decade of maintaining pride and independence beyond even most pets, he let me pick him up and get him to the places he needed to be. Even seemed thankful.
When Sam and I joined forces, we were damaged. But we each gave each other little bits to try and work on that. Despite being betrayed so many times through his life by people, in the last days he gave me the ultimate trust of carrying him. And despite being a 52-year-old Texan man who has some belief you need to stand strong and deal with your emotions, I’ve cried more in the last week than possibly in the majority of my life.
Sam found trust and I had to deal with my heart. I think we’ll both take those gifts and hold onto them.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Social networking and our society
The last couple of days, I've been watching something play out on Facebook, and couldn't help but be struck by how it echoes the bigger picture of our society.
One of the dramas is a 20-something girl's ongoing saga. You can watch her involve herself with substances that every few days lead her to consternation and conflict. They're really just the trigger. But whether they lead to her battling other people, straining or even losing relationships or even getting arrested, it only takes her days to return to them and have negative results. But she doesn't admit to the cause and effect.
That's a serious situation. It's not up to the common observor to decide if she's addicted to something or not.
But it is interesting to watch the hue and cry that is always ongoing with her 20-something female friends, who feels slighted or wronged, who justifies and who swears off to only return almost as quickly as the page can refresh.
Although the substances may be reflective of some part of American life, it is the maelstrom that is always ongoing that is much more indicative of a dominating piece of our culture right now. It's like they've all watched too many episodes of The Hills and feel they have to make their own lives as "exciting," at least as gossipy. They would claim they hate the drama, but you can watch and see it gives them spark and energy. It is their cause for going on each day.
On the other side, I've watched a high school acquaintance learn of his cancer, reveal it to the world and deal. In contrast to the very public debacle of the young girls, his revelation was matter of fact. His internal consideration of what it means was a single sentence of how quickly he needs to ensure he's lived life. And his gratitude for the outpouring of attempted comfort from people he's barely crossed paths with for three decades was complete and compact.
Drama is an overused word in our society. I've used it too many times in this piece. Once there was melodrama used for the superficial and pointlessly public outcries that some love to draw attention. And there was drama for the true struggles of life. But we've lumped them all together under the simple smaller world anymore.
I don't think the gap between the two types justifies the compression of our language.
One of the dramas is a 20-something girl's ongoing saga. You can watch her involve herself with substances that every few days lead her to consternation and conflict. They're really just the trigger. But whether they lead to her battling other people, straining or even losing relationships or even getting arrested, it only takes her days to return to them and have negative results. But she doesn't admit to the cause and effect.
That's a serious situation. It's not up to the common observor to decide if she's addicted to something or not.
But it is interesting to watch the hue and cry that is always ongoing with her 20-something female friends, who feels slighted or wronged, who justifies and who swears off to only return almost as quickly as the page can refresh.
Although the substances may be reflective of some part of American life, it is the maelstrom that is always ongoing that is much more indicative of a dominating piece of our culture right now. It's like they've all watched too many episodes of The Hills and feel they have to make their own lives as "exciting," at least as gossipy. They would claim they hate the drama, but you can watch and see it gives them spark and energy. It is their cause for going on each day.
On the other side, I've watched a high school acquaintance learn of his cancer, reveal it to the world and deal. In contrast to the very public debacle of the young girls, his revelation was matter of fact. His internal consideration of what it means was a single sentence of how quickly he needs to ensure he's lived life. And his gratitude for the outpouring of attempted comfort from people he's barely crossed paths with for three decades was complete and compact.
Drama is an overused word in our society. I've used it too many times in this piece. Once there was melodrama used for the superficial and pointlessly public outcries that some love to draw attention. And there was drama for the true struggles of life. But we've lumped them all together under the simple smaller world anymore.
I don't think the gap between the two types justifies the compression of our language.
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