The Long Goodbye

A see-through heart floating in water.
I started applying to graduate schools in different cities last October. So for almost 8 months, people close to me have known that there was a good chance I’d be leaving Boston this summer.

There’s an advantage to a long goodbye. When you tell people you’re leaving, their love for you pours out. I’ve had people say that they wish they’d gotten to know me better, that our workplace will go to hell in a hand-basket without me, that I’m brave, that they’ll miss me, that it’s been good knowing me.

It’s been lovely to feel this outpouring of affection. But it’s made me wonder—why don’t we tell each other that stuff regularly?

Why don’t I tell my best friends at least once a week how much I love them, how important they are to me, how brave and sweet and impressive they are?

Emoting like that feels awkward, especially for us stoic New England types. Some of us need an excuse to tell our loved ones how much they mean to us.

We never know how much longer we have with anyone. With each goodbye, I’ve had to tangle with the fact that I may never see this particular person again. The reason that’s top of my mind is that I’m moving out of state for at least a couple of years. But honestly, it would be true even if I’d committed to living out the rest of my days here in Boston.

*

My evangelical friends tend to be pretty good at telling each other how much they care. There’s a tradition of praying for one another in small groups, in which you ask God to help people with whatever their issues are, to strengthen them to meet those challenges.

This is normal in religious Christian circles, but not in agnostic ones. Usually it takes something climactic, like a wedding, a funeral, a graduation, or a departure from town, to draw expressions of love and good wishes.

If we know our friends love us, then why must it be stated aloud? Why can’t we just believe it silently, and assume that we all know it about each other?

There’s an element of risk in stating those feelings. Kind of like being the first one in a new romantic relationship to say “I love you.” You put yourself out there, risking rejection, risking being thought awkward and weird, risking mockery.

Our culture allows verbal expressions of love in romantic relationships, and to some extent in family relationships, but not so much in friendships. I do hear younger women telling their platonic friends “I love you” as they say goodbye at the end of the night. But that feels like a reflex, rather than something that carries emotional weight.

The higher the risk, the greater the potential reward. It is a holy thing to have someone express their love verbally, because they are making themselves vulnerable. They are taking their armor off.

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Not everyone is lucky enough to have close friends. For many years, I doubted that my friendships were as real or solid as those I saw around me. I used to hold myself back a lot, which made it harder for people to know me. I’m getting better at opening up, but it’s a skill I’m still learning.

Some people have been wounded so badly that they shield themselves from closeness. Others have pathologies that make it much easier for them to drive others away than to draw them in.

So if we have friends, we’re fortunate. And we should struggle daily not to take them for granted.

*

Let’s make an agreement. Let’s start telling our friends that they’re the best, that we’re so happy to have them around, that we know how rare true friendship is, that they do it well.

If it feels weird, that’s cool. Life is weird. Humans are weird. Relationships of all stripes are weird.

If we put our hearts on the line, more and more often, it becomes easier to do, and we get more adept at it.

Anything that increases the amount of love in the world can only be a good thing. Verbalizing that love shows us how strong a foundation we have right under our feet—if only we’d look down to see it.

Image by seyed mostafa zamani via Creative Commons.

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Bad Medicine Cabinet

I’ll be living here in my condo for another month and a half, and I’m feeling sentimental. So I identified a little home improvement project: cleaning up my medicine cabinet. It was gross and rusty. Check it out.

A rusty shelf in a medicine cabinet.

Gnarly!

A rusty shelf in a medicine cabinet.

I found a couple great sources online for how to fix it up, and added in some tips from my building superintendent, John, who knows everything about home repair.

Here’s how I took my cabinet from nasty to nice.

I wanted to take off the doors, but they were screwed on so tightly I wasn’t able to. This was a bummer, as it would have given me easier access to the cabinet’s innards. But I plastered painter’s tape all over everything and hoped for the best.

Blue painter's tape on medicine cabinet.

Next, I had to get the rough rusty bits off. You can buy a Rustoleum product for that, but I decided to use the natural approach: mixing up some salt with some white vinegar, and making it into a gentle abrasive paste.

Salt scrub in a bowl.

I applied that to the rust stains with an old toothbrush, and let it stand for about 2 hours.

Toothbrush on rust stains in medicine cabinet.

Then I scrubbed the salt and rust off, first with the toothbrush, and then with an even stronger abrasive cleaning pad.

Scotch Brite scrub pads.

That left a surface that was still discolored, but smooth and ready for painting once I’d dried it off.

Smooth rusty shelf in medicine cabinet.

Next, I painted on a coat of Kilz. This was John’s suggestion: He said that without Kilz, the rust would eventually re-emerge, even from under a coat of primer and a topcoat of paint.

A quart of Kilz on a mat over a sink.

I painted on the Kilz with a 2-inch brush, and left it for 12 hours to dry.

Medicine cabinet shelf with layer of Kilz.

Then I painted on a coat of Rustoleum Protective Enamel Oil-based Paint in gloss white. This also took at least 12 hours to dry.

And this is the finished result.

Clean, repainted medicine cabinet.

Doesn’t it look nice?

Clean, repainted medicine cabinet.

If I were to do the same project again, I’d use foam brushes instead of paintbrushes, to get that super smooth finish.

And I would paint a thicker layer of Kilz on, to make it more of a primer.

Also, a word of warning: the salt scrub leaves little grains everywhere after it dries. Be careful to wipe your work area off completely so they don’t get embedded in the layers of paint.

Here’s my playlist for this project.

Have you done a project like this lately? If so, how did it go?

Two Choices

Two large trees leaning away from one anotherI’ve narrowed my grad school choices down to two.

Two schools. Two cities. Two different states, both in the Midwest. Equal scholarships. (Equal amounts of student debt looming. But let’s cruise right on by that for now.)

I know it’s an illusion that my life will now divide neatly, one way or the other. It’s not like one choice will be bad, and the other good. Both will be complex and challenging and fascinating and rewarding.

Both will test me. I’m hoping that both will unfreeze a part of me that’s been iced in for many years.

This is a huge turning point. And it’s also absolutely routine.

*

Every moment, our lives divide in this way.

As immortalized in the pre-goopy Gwyneth movie Sliding Doors, the difference between missing a train and catching a train can yield two completely distinct life paths.

Not that it’s ever really that binary. It’s just easier for our minds to grasp an idea broken into two neat chunks.

I’m trying not to get hung up on making “the right choice.” I’m relishing the opportunity to visit both cities, and to see which one gives me that live-wire feeling–the feeling that zapped me when I decided to apply to grad schools in the first place.

You know. That feeling of, “I’m about to blow up my whole life…But I think it might be OK.”

Photo by Gillie Rhodes via Creative Commons.

Laughter at the Rape Crisis Center

Statues in a fountain depicting women laughingYou might think it would be a gloomy place: the office where survivors of sexual assault go for therapy appointments. The phrase “rape crisis center” conjures images of institutional, grim rooms, with people sitting in the scuffed-up waiting area weeping quietly.

The Boston Area Rape Crisis Center is the opposite of that. Its waiting area is a bright, colorful space where clients can drink tea and relax on a comfy chair before seeing their therapist. It’s nothing fancy, but it feels safe and welcoming.

I’ve been volunteering at BARCC for a couple months, checking people in for their appointments. It’s rare to see anyone in obvious distress or in crisis mode. Most are composed when they come in to the office. Some are cheerful, and some are straining to appear so. Others are quiet, and hesitate to make eye contact. I only have their initials in the calendar, not their names.

When people come out of their appointments, they appear physically lighter. They move more easily. Sometimes their therapist will walk them out, and they’ll be laughing together.

Isn’t that the essence of healing? To walk out of a therapy session with a brighter aura, cracking up about something?

I haven’t done a fundraising walk for many years, but this spring, I’m jumping on board BARCC’s Walk for Change. I’ll share more about it as the date gets closer.

Their 24-hour hotline is 800-841-8371.

Learn more about the work they do in Boston and beyond.

Image: Laughter, by sanpani, via Creative Commons.