Connections

We all want to be seen, heard and understood, according to Virginia Satir, American author and therapist. I wholeheartedly agree and would add many of us also enjoy being touched.

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Cheryl and I meet at her house once a month. We hug hello. She lays a small cloth on the carpet to protect it from spills. We place a mirror and our hair-coloring products on the counter. She brushes her hair, dabs soap-gel near her hairline, measures out her formula. I shake the contents of her applicator bottle, and we begin. That is, she sits and talks while I listen and apply her dye. What does she talk about? Anything she wants.

With me, Cheryl feels accepted for who she is. We know a lot about one another, all the way back to our families of origin. Her former husband and I grew up on the same street. My husband, John, and I first met Cheryl when we were newly engaged. She was with me when my water broke for my first-born son. I’ve known Cheryl through many stages of our lives. With one another, we get to be ourselves.

After about twenty minutes when I finish covering Cheryl’s roots, we switch positions and roles. Between cups of tea and more conversation, we rinse each other’s hair. I ensure the water temperature is just right, carefully coax her head under the faucet careful to avoid her ears and neck when I use the sprayer, tenderly rinse yet gently scratch her scalp to relieve it of the itchy solution. She treats me with the same regard. We always hug good-bye.

Friends for forty-five years, I joke we’re dye-ing together.

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Three women come to my house once a month with dinners in hand, typically take-out. We hug hello, sit down to eat and catch up on each other’s news. Seated around my dining room table, or in the gazebo weather permitting, we play three games of competitive Scrabble. We like to win, consume copious amounts of dark chocolate, and laugh. A lot. The camaraderie increases our oxytocin just as the chocolate boosts our serotonin.

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There had been ten of us women who met to discuss whatever book that month’s hostess had assigned. When Barb’s life was ebbing, we took turns visiting her, providing food and housecleaning. After the celebration of her life, our moods eventually lightened as we, now nine, tuned into the wedding of one’s daughter, the birth of another’s grandchild, and the gifts we’ll steal from one another during our round-robin gift-swap. We also laugh a lot.

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For six years now, twice a month, about eight writers including myself meet to share and critique one another’s work. We try to arrive early to hear what’s new, celebrate our successes or bemoan another’s woes. We occasionally meet-up outside of our “Writer’s Group” for coffee or lunch to strengthen the bonds of friendship. In addition to helping improve one another’s writing skills, we offer encouragement about each other’s life because we truly care.

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For Drumming Circle, picture nine women and one nursling outdoors around a blazing fire-bowl with drums in hand or on the ground between our legs. We remember to breathe. One starts off with a heartbeat. We listen to each drum’s voice and slowly add our own percussion. Do we shoot for where the spaces are, where the silence exists? Or imitate the rhythm we hear and add our own drums’ tone to it? The air temperature, already in the low-seventies, drops but the fire heats up as does our drumming. The baby boy at his mother’s breast occasionally makes a sweet sound then nods off to sleep. For this monthly occasion, I love sensing, poising, preparing to jump in. Does it work? Not always. No risk, no awesomeness. The glory happens when our beats fit together and we women jive and speed up, reach a peak, whoop and cheer and ride the wave until one signals the finale. We squeeze our neighbor’s hand or touch a shoulder to convey our pleasure, then we begin again.

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On a Sunday in September, armed with suntan lotion, a cooler with iced tea, lemonade, seltzer, beer, and a package of Chips Ahoy, John and I boarded our friends’ pontoon boat along with their pooch and three other acquaintances. With the air temperature around seventy degrees, under a bright sun and puffy clouds, we set out at 1 p.m. from the State Boat launch.

We relaxed on cushy furniture or in canvas armchairs, listened to the thrum of our boat’s engine and that of passing motors. The lake was in turn black, charcoal, grey, silver, and blue. Forested mountains alternately lined the horizon. Some leaves had begun to turn red.

One of us, a soundman, had worked a gig for John Belushi and Dan Akroyd. Another was a Professor Emeritus - in Sciences. Still another may volunteer more in our community than the rest of us put together. Someone brought sensational, homemade brownies. We had cut-up melon and mixed nuts. Fresh, local grapes and apples were pulled from a backpack. We talked about our lives and the truths of them, how one is facing a diagnosis necessitating a look at end-of-life issues. One of us took a lot of photographs. Another was determined to swim in spite of the sixty-seven-degree water and still another wanted to talk about the origin of life.

We were a community, on the water, spotting loons, hearing gulls, feeling the lake spray, soaking in sunrays. We laughed after one of our captains accidentally turned the front of the boat into oncoming waves. It nosed down into the water flooding part of the deck’s carpet, momentarily worrying us that we were going down into the drink. The boat was quickly righted. Then, three opted to jump in and swim. We shared more snacks and stories before we hugged our new and old friends goodbye.

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When I connect with others, I feel a part of rather than apart from.

NonfictionBeckie O'Neill