“Intimacy
is when you into-me-see, and in that
moment of connection we are brought closer together.” – Lenny Ravich
It
started when I was on maternity leave.
When the buzz of newborn excitement had hushed to a cyclical routine of
feeding, and sleeplessness. When the
steady stream of family and friends anxious to lay eyes on the new baby
trickled to the occasional phone call.
As I slowly slid into the isolation and loneliness of new motherhood, I
lost touch with my working friends whose lives sped along at a pace I couldn’t possibly
catch with my stroller and twelve bags of baby paraphernalia. And while I’d tour the baby- friendly coffee
shops with other moms, the fleeting haphazard conversations we’d attempt to
have between burping and bum wiping left me feeling empty. And so…
I began to talk to strangers.
It
began subtly enough. I’d linger on the
phone with telemarketers. “Are you sure
you don’t have any other offers you’d like to tell me about?” “Maybe we could
just double check the information in my file since I’m on the phone with you
anyway.” “I really think we should go
back and review my answers to questions 7-13.”
And
then one year on New Year’s Eve, I found myself on the phone with my satellite
provider and as he patiently went through the endless steps of updating my
system (remotely from Mumbai I imagined), with neither of us having anywhere
else to be for those 20 minutes or so, we
started talking to each other just to fill the lull.
“How’s
the weather up there?” He asked.
“Oh,
much colder than where you are I’m sure,” I answered, “Poor you. It can’t be
fun having to work New Year’s Eve,” I sympathized. We went on to have a delightful unexpected
conversation about how we both preferred Christmas to New Year’s and were
relatively content to pass December 31st in quiet personal reflection
of the year that had passed and our hopes for the one to come. Before hanging up, I thanked him for bringing
Dick Clark back into my living room in the nick of time and I wished him a very
happy new year.
Then
there was the travel agent, Joe, with whom I communicated by email for months
as I planned and scheduled a much needed family vacation. Joe and I would fling humorous observations
and friendly banter back and forth through cyberspace.
“You’re so organized,” he would type back when I
sent him spread sheets of our passport details.
“Mother of 6.
Not much choice.” I would counter.
His LOL’s would be peppered with details of the weather in his home
town, the progress he was making in his Christmas shopping or his own vacation
plans. Once or twice I wondered if it
was inappropriate to be cyber chatting with a young man half my age--- (Imagine
my surprise when months later I finally had to call in my credit number and
heard that “Joe”, the young man I had been bantering with was in fact “Jo”, a
middle-aged woman with a smoker’s hack.)
But ultimately the pleasure I got from these random interactions and
moments of in-sight was proof to me of their precious value.
The
other day at the bus stop my youngest waited and pensively shuffled her feet in
the dirty snow. “Mommy, I have a
question, but I don’t really know how to say it." I took a deep breath, apprehensive about her
serious tone. Were we about to launch
into the where-do-babies-come-from conversation? Or God forbid, the childhood
crushing is-Santa-real question? I
braced myself.
“What
I want to ask you is... How do we make
friends?” I exhaled in relief. No problem.
I’ve got this one. The well-oiled
gears of parental advice started turning.
“Oh,
well, you could just ask them if they want to play with you. Or maybe you could introduce yourself and ask
them what their name is. Or you could
ask if you can sit with them at lunch, or at recess. Is it someone at school, baby?”
“Nooo!”
(How does a seven-year-old manage to pack so much sarcastic exasperation in one
syllable?) “I mean,
how-do-we-become-friends?” I looked at
her inquisitive face and realized that I had once again, in my naïve
overconfidence, grossly missed the mark.
She was asking me about the serendipity of friendship. She wanted to know-
How do we make friends?
Around
this time last year we had taken the girls to our neighborhood Tim’s for hot
chocolate and a donut. There is something
about the steamy familiarity of the corner coffee shop in the holidays. The comfort of coffee and a donut. A gathering place for those seeking warmth,
connection and a sugary treat. As we sat in silence, cupping our hot mugs,
breathing in the cocoa scented coziness, an elderly man got up from where he
was sitting with his buddies earlier. As
his friends put their jackets on and started to shuffle out, he came to our
table and with a twinkle in his eye, asked the girls if they liked
balloons. Curious, they nodded, and he
proceeded to pull out a handful of long skinny colorful balloons from his inner
jacket pocket like some retired circus master on a break from the three rings. We all grinned as we watched him blow up the colorful
bits of rubber and slowly manipulate them into a dog and a flower and hand them
to my enchanted daughters who in their shock could barely remember how to say
thank-you at this unexpected gift.
“Happy holidays,” he said, and just as quickly as he had appeared, he
zipped up his coat and stepped out into the blustery evening.
Somehow
these days, these moments of simple connection and in-sight with strangers are
few and far between. We have slipped
from wishing passers’ by a “good
morning” to crossing to the other side of the road, from asking the local
butcher how his grandchildren are to ordering our groceries on line, from “ love thy neighbor” to “stranger
danger” . So many missed opportunities for intimate
connection, for learning about others, while learning about ourselves.
From
telemarketers and cyber salespeople, I have moved on to cashiers, bank tellers,
and strangers in the elevator. It’s
become an addiction. I am constantly
looking for that next connection. Can I
engage the grocery bag boy to tell me about the sports team he is raising money
for? What music does my pretty brooding
teen neighbor listen to on her way to school each morning? What special event
is the lady in the next chair getting her hair cut for? Each passing of a stranger is an opportunity
for a serendipitous friendship, to have a moment that matters. And though these transient moments are gone
as fast as they come, in the exchange of a few words, a laugh or a smile I am
somehow the richer for it.
This
year, we found ourselves making yet another seasonal trip to Tim Horton’s. I
surprised my children by picking them up early from school to take them out for
supper. I called their father on the way
and told him to meet us there. It was
already dark and the building anticipation of the upcoming Christmas vacation
filled the three of us with warm fuzziness. The coffee shop was packed and I
sent the girls to grab the last vacant booth while I ordered us all soup bowls,
hot chocolate and their choice- donuts with red and green sprinkles. At the
next table sat an older woman, waiting for a friend. We greeted each other and I settled in with
my kids. Periodically I’d glance over
and return the smile of the silver-haired woman next to us. I was clearly not the only one entertained by
my daughters’ bubbling energy.
Finally,
somewhere between sipping the last of our soup and peeling the wax paper from
our donuts, we looked up and saw my husband’s familiar grey tuque entering the
door. The three of us waved excitedly
and he smiled back. “Is that daddy?” The woman next to us asked.
“Yes,
we’re having a special family dinner.”
“How
lovely!” she exclaimed.
After
supper, I shuffled the girls off to the washroom, an essential step before
zipping them up into their snowsuits before the long walk home. As we came out, the elderly woman was waiting
to meet me. Gently placing her hand on
my arm, she smiled warmly and said “A very happy holidays to you and your
family.” I grasped her firmly, holding
her in an impromptu hug. “Oh, and you
too! Thank-you! A very happy holiday to
you!” My heart fairly leaped out at this
beautiful woman. Our eyes connected as,
in a fleeting moment of intimacy she saw into me and I into her.
“Who
was that?” my daughter asked me. “What’s
her name? “
“I
don’t know,” I answered honestly.
“Is
she your friend?” she persisted.
“Yes,”
I paused. “Yes, she is.” And we bundled our coats around us and stepped
out into the dark night.
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