The original iteration of this essay came out in my bi-weekly newsletter a year ago. We have more freedom now. Many of us are vaccinated. We're traveling again. These are all good things. But with those reinstated norms, life again speeds up. August though, full of heat and lazy days, felt like a good time to pause. To listen and notice what really matters.
My daughter waited six days for Sabrina to come back from the Outer Banks. Sabrina lives three houses down. The girls don't go to the same school but they have connected in a big way over the past year. They giggle, plan and snack together but prior to Covid, they haven't been friends.
Friends, one or several, are what I call our right people. They see us and allow us to feel seen. (Our right people are part of our community, one of those crucial lasagna ingredients that we can access when we make decisions.) They offer validation, acceptance and community. Those right people are not only a support, they're our trumpet. They brag on us and offer accountability when we need it. Through crisis and in laughter, friends are a firm scaffold.
Friendship requires a great deal of two people. One obvious factor is time. These two girls have spent hours each week playing together, a confident"yes" to the company of the other. Adults, however, spend our days managing, not building. We spend hours, not with friends, but on devices: scheduling, organizing, planning, shopping. Adults also work, whatever that looks like.
When Sabrina comes running up the sidewalk at the end of that long sixth day, my daughter declares loudly, "I've missed you SO much, Sabrina!" A pause. Then my daughter says it again. Honesty and love hang in the air, bright as bedding on a clothesline. Her friend glows.
Adults bring the emotions of current and past friendships into the imaginings for new ones. Stories that still sting --the friends that ghosted after we got divorced or the ones that betrayed our secrets--barb their way into yearnings for new friends. Alone, we sit with shame or sorrow and remember what went wrong as we tense for a future sting, nervous about trusting again.
Proximity matters. Sabrina lives 100 feet away. It's easier to spend time developing a friendship when you see someone on your afternoon walk. Or they are part of your Sunday dinner rotation. A visual reminder of someone, whether house, car or mis-delivered mail, serves as a promise of what could be.
While time nor proximity is always under our control, our willingness to be vulnerable is. Vulnerability ("sounds like truth, feels like courage" as defined by Brene Brown) builds trust.
““I really miss our walks and talks.”
”I’m scared to try this.”
”Our friendship means so much to me.”
”I heard what you said and am really grateful that you shared that with me.”
”I feel alone.””
Vulnerability is umami. The "essence of deliciousness," umami deepens any taste. It's amped up savory. Some studies show that umami not only stimulates the appetite, but also might help us feel more full too. That's the beauty of vulnerability. It tastes incredible, we crave more but we also feel full when we experience it.
Sabrina and my daughter know what is true: friendships are everything. You and I knew this once. But we grew older. We learned shame, to keep our feelings close and to stay busy. We might not be able to spend endless hours with a friend but we can make the most of the moments we do have.
By adding in that umami.
We can't have real friendships without it. We need vulnerability. To know the supreme flavor, yes, but in a culture that prioritizes quantity and consumption, we need to be reminded what enough feels like. We knew this once. We can know it again. Friendship is still the currency we need.