My recent trip to England was always about friendship. I knew I could use a good dose of being surrounded by people I’ve loved, albeit from afar, for twenty-some years. I was hopeful that our bond, established while teaching in Japan, remained intact despite the time and distance.
Our friendship hadn’t been simply about the teaching – it was also about the climbing of Mount Fuji, both literally and symbolically. It was running for the last train when missing it meant finding a hotel in the city (never an option we actually considered); then, having missed the train, pooling resources for a taxi, which cost something like two hundred dollars; playing charades on the train; bicycling headlong into a rice paddy on the way home after a few beers; writing a screenplay together – but mostly, it was about bonding over a shared, life-changing experience. Funny to think how much a life can still change after forty.
An unexpected bonus came my way when I traveled to Glastonbury. A woman I once cooked with in a rock and roll bar on South Street had been living there for fifteen years. She and I had become Facebook friends, and I’d loved the photos she posted of her medieval village. I sent her a message, asking for a B&B recommendation, and suggesting we meet up for a drink. When she replied that I should stay with her, I accepted, but wondered if perhaps she had forgotten that she really didn’t like me that much back then.
Much to my delight, we connected like two links in a chain. We loved the medieval lore of the village, and the feel of being in a place unchanged in time for centuries. You could even say we shared a certain woo-wooness. We couldn’t stop finding things we had in common, and we both hope to see each other again. How often do we get to exchange a virtual friend for a real one?
I decided I just had to move to England to be with so many people I loved. My friends encouraged me. We reckoned the cheapest way would be to perpetrate a fraudulent marriage, and plans were made, albeit under the influence of a tiny bit of wine.
Then reality set in. Yes, these folks are the dearest of friends, and were just as happy to see me as I was to see them, but they have other lives now. I would be worse off living in London for friends than I am here. Not to mention that London is one of the most expensive markets for housing, and that leaves the suburbs. This city mouse doesn’t do suburbs. Plus I’d be a criminal.
In Costa Rica, Jack and I had shared a wide circle of friends. I’d thought I had friends here in Philadelphia, but found out that either they lived too far away, or were too busy. My tiny family – my two brothers – were here, except that one of them up and moved to Oklahoma, and the other threatens daily to take off for parts unknown. So here I am, wishing I still had my husband, and wondering what I’ll have to do to make friends at my age.
I can be judgemental, and based on appearances, leap to conclusions that later turn out to have been wrong. Like Frank Sinatra, I want things my way. I have to work hard to be patient, have been known to shoot from the lip. This is not to say I’m devoid of good qualities. It’s just that I have to wonder if people meeting me for the first time would be willing to stick around to uncover the good bits if I didn’t clamp down on myself. The beauty of old friends is that they actually love us despite our faults. Or maybe it’s more complicated than that.
One of my dearest friends, Michael, induced an epiphany in me when he said, on more than one occasion, “That’s why I love you”, or “That’s what I love about you.” Was he responding to me being my best self? Not likely. He was responding to me being my unguarded, real self. The same self I try to keep hidden when I’m on my best behavior or meeting someone for the first time. On reflection, I realized that he loved me as much for my imperfections as for the things I tell myself are my best qualities. It’s the wabi sabi of friendship.
Wabi Sabi is a Japanese concept that is generally applied to art. In its simplest sense, it’s about finding beauty in imperfection. Don’t our imperfections make us who we are? And isn’t it a relief to embrace them?