On my way into Wegmans yesterday evening, my path to nourishment (and beer) intersected with someone I’d never met before. She approached the double doors from the side; I was coming from the front. When we reached a point where one of us would have to yield, we both stopped and gestured with the “you go ahead” sign. Making eye contact for the first time, we smiled at each other, then she said, “I’m slow. You go first.”
I told her that I’d paused because I wanted to admire her walking stick. It was obviously homemade and it made the best clunking noise when she tapped it with every step.
And for the next 15 minutes, we stood in the vestibule exchanging information about ourselves as if we were old friends having a reunion. I don’t know who Wendy used to be or much about how she came to be who she is now, but the conversation made me feel happy, inspired…connected to humanity. Energized because here was this perfect stranger with whom I had so much in common, but yet would never have met if not for her walking stick. Perfect. Stranger.
Wendy is an MBA in English and teaches writing down the street at the community college. I have always wanted to do that: teach writing. She has always wanted to do what I do: be a writer. Funny, huh? We both love words.
Her walking stick reminded me of my family. In my home are many examples of the creativity that abounds from generations past and present. Uncle Jack’s pencil drawings. Chuck’s woodwork. Clyde’s art. Pop’s desk. Works of literature and craft by my sons. My book and home decor.
How unfathomably lucky I feel to have inherited that sense! And how wonderful it is to randomly encounter others who appreciate the feel of tools for creativity. Wendy’s walking stick: It needed a rubber tip, but the price of safety would be the absence of that woody sound.
Wendy called herself a “single parent, in a sense” because she keeps a house with paddock an hour outside the city for the sake of her equine friend, a horse whose name I forgot to ask. She spoke lovingly of the smells and the tactile pleasures of being a horse companion. We compared the attitudes of horses and cats. I revealed to her that I have never once been on a horse without experiencing some sort of disaster (which is not a literary exaggeration, I swear). We laughed about trying to put a saddle and bridle on a cat. I didn’t mention what happened when I tried to teach Ollie to yodel. (See Channy’s blog.)
Wendy and I talked about midlife transitions and her desire to put her MBA to different use. I offered her my services “for a neighborly price or barter”… gave her my card, hope that she’ll call me.
Hope that she’ll call me… sort of. I don’t kid myself that I’ve found my new best friend. I’m not that good at committed relationships. I think I disappoint everyone who’s ever tried to be my friend: I’m unreliable.
I’m pretty good, though, at the “meaningful, but brief encounter.” My resume writing service is a constant source of inspiration because my clients are often so openly vulnerable, and thus, raw and honest. I make a difference in their lives, and they in mine (although they never really see that). It frequently happens that when a client leaves my place, they hug me and proclaim that “we will be friends.” But that doesn’t happen; I’m aloof and unavailable.
I love to be that Perfect. Stranger.
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Addendum / Afterthought: I need to add something to this post for the sake of those close friends I DO have, DO keep. While it’s true that I’m an unreliable casual companion, my close friends know me very intimately: have seen me shed unabashed tears complete with snotty projections, know my most shameful secrets and love me anyway, reveal their hurts and hopes with complete trust that we’re all about reciprocity. In that, I know that they forgive my imperfections, and I theirs. Because of them… and because of the security I feel as the mother of two young men, I am never lonely. I am never empty and my spirit is not wanting because of the love I feel from them, and the strengthening faith I keep in my heart.
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