I don’t know how they do it, but they do. I will be scraping along in the sediment of whatever mundane moods seep up of a given day, given week, and a glowing little missive will come fluttering into my inbox to spark alight all the damp and dreary ends back into something warm and pulsing. stillness along the threads that comprise my extended friendship network is completely understandable and natural in the way of ebbing and flowing busy lives, if mournful to the one who’s blue– and I do know that my own fingers should tap out a morse to call forth a reassuring echo when in need– but sometimes these true friends just, somehow, know, and do it, all on their own, just like that– and the whole thing comes awake, alive, and I am nestled, nested, cocooned once more by the knowing of those who value and love me in this world, and all is right again.
looking in and looking out
That's a wonderful title – and it's true: friendship can be mysterious and hard to define.
How do you write like that? Amazing. Somewhere there's a book that needs this paragraph.