a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
Dear B,
On your birthday, I think of you and am writing to you on our little space. It is always hard to be 3,000 miles away from you, but it is especially hard during Major Life Events which include birthdays, holidays, days of happiness, and sadness. All days. The distance is hard, I think, because sometimes we communicate best without speaking. We can read each other's minds and so often I feel understood by you just by sharing your space. It can be exhausting to be without that privilege of space.
Today I attended a retirement party. Surrounded by people from all walks of this person's life was a unique delight; hearing them reminisce about accomplishments, challenges and lessons learned was at once beautiful and overwhelming. How strange it must be to watch a retrospective on one's own life. Sort of like being at your own funeral, I assume. But, it gave me an idea to do a retrospective on your 28 years of life. A birthday is, of course, an opportunity to grow, look forward, and also to retire the past. Easier said than done. I know.
B - 28 Years Old
I remember the first feeling I ever had about you, freshman year of high school. Gobsmacked. An unusual word that appropriately summarizes the initial feelings I had upon meeting you. You were so funny, and friendly, and smart, and . . . you liked me? Yes, gobsmacked that you would deign to be my friend.
I still feel a bit of that, even now. What about you is so singular is that you occupy so many spaces at once. You are grounded, and funny, and of-the-earth (not in a granola way, but in a good-food-and-wine way). But you are also a dreamer, and have an ethereal way about you. Sometimes I feel like you are writing books in your head about literature, art, theory, and the mechanics of consciousness.
All of this would be prohibitively intimidating to the Common Man if it weren't for my favorite quality about you: you are a sharer. You cultivate joy by sharing joy with others. You bring people together, amplifying happiness. If each person you know and car about is a molecule, you are the space between. You hold us all together. Each of us wants to be near the glow of your brilliance. If life was an Olive Garden restaurant, you would be the never-ending breadsticks: everyone wants that shit.
That point, however, is the push-and-pull: you so naturally give to others, but what can others give to you? Life has answered that question for you in many varied -- and sometimes cruel -- ways. I don't think either of us has found the answer yet. We can control what we give. We can't control what others decide to give in return. What chances do we take?
This year, as you navigate the minefields of vulnerability in yourself and others, remember you are brave. Remember that you are the lighthouse for many ships in the sea--including your own. You can always rely on yourself. You are capable, intelligent, and resourceful. Everything you need to succeed you can find. If you chose to banish yourself on an island because the relationship between giving and getting became too decayed, you would survive. You would turn that island into a Beyonce video of Surviving and Thriving. Still, I think you would ultimately paint coconuts to look like humans and name them all. Connection is your never-ending breadstick. The sticky part is first identifying what you would like to receive and then trusting that others will meet you there.
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It's the future. I'm standing by your 70-year-old self. It's your retirement party and we're all here to celebrate you.
"Remember being in our 20s?" I say to you.
"What a cosmic joke," you reply.
"In the end it was all ok. We figured it out."
"It was better than ok. It was spectacular."
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Here's to you, my best never-ending breadstick.
Wish you were here,
R
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