Seeing a friend again is like a first date with someone I’ve admired from far away, wishing to share a meal or a drink and conversation. I've already wondered what we would talk about if that ever happened. When I meet a dear friend again, the joy is fragile with echoes of talk of what we haven't been sharing.
Passing time has a way of making a silence, a void, an open space unexplained, eventsunshared; ideas spent elsewhere; people met; faces, smiles, and history without the words included. Does that mean something -- a change; or nothing -- the same? Finally knowing that truth will be an easy thing. Finding out is a monster of imagination.
How do we locate the bridge to the old conversation? I worry that you're afraid I will be wanting, needing, wishing for things gone by, things no longer, a "we" that used to exist. How do we get to new things based on the beauty of old history?
Surely the bond of connection, the stories of scatterlings that made the bell sing, the music that made it okay to share secrets is still forged and truly there. Every link held out danger in the night when needed to meet, holding tears and thoughts safe in the cabin up the path under the trees. Together was powerfully moving, life changing, remarkable, unforgettable, and unique. How do we move forward? How do we find the new road? How do I tell you I see the same things you see?
Here I am again needing to be brave and vulnerable. Yet it's a new version of me meeting a new version of you.
I hear the bell at the cabin ringing, singing. Calling to scatterlings, recalling memories.
Finding an old friend is worth every scary second of saying hello again.
−me strauss Letting me be