Goodbyes are spoken

We are not moving this summer. That overwhelming sadness won't occur until next summer. This summer, we are experiencing the feelings of watching others leave. Gordon's and Daniel's best friends both moved this year. Daniel had to say goodbye in May, and Gordon will say goodbye today (even if he has no comprehension of what it will truly mean to say a final goodbye). Jill and Alice are both losing good friends, two each who were not just school friends but also sleepover and play date buddies. I am also losing close friends and neighbors.

As I was pondering the imminent loss of a dear, dear friend and how to possibly express how it made me feel, poetry came out rather than my usual prose.

A friend departs.
Goodbyes are spoken.
And we feel in our hearts
that something has broken.
You'll go somewhere new,
and soon I will, too.
But inside of me
and inside of you
lives the memory
of all the shared time
that will always be
yours and mine.
And as we remember,
we feel our hearts mend,
because distance doesn't mean
that our friendship has to end.
From Mimi
To Ji Hye
미미와 지혜

Anticipating, trying to fortify against, the upcoming loss of this friend and others led me to ponder all the friendships I've been blessed to claim my own. I almost staggered under the weight of all the love I have received.

I am so grateful for the people spread out over this huge world who have called me friend, who have given me a bit of space in their hearts, who have listened to my stories, who have offered advice, who have held me, and who have cared.

Then amidst that wave of gratitude, in crept a thread of bitterness. A taste of anger: Why do I have so many friends spread out so far? Why couldn't I stay in one place? Why couldn't I stay, living in the same town and experiencing what it means to have friends day in and day out over the years? Why can't I give my children the gift of going to high school with the same kids from elementary school? That is a gift I will not give my kids.

And usually I cheer myself up. "But Mimi, think of everything else you've given your kids: a bit of the United States, a piece of Latin America, a section of Africa. They've learned how to make friends, how to smile at strangers, how to play even if they can't communicate in the same language, how to be resilient." Sigh. "And Mimi, if you had never left New York and Michigan, you would not have met those whom you love in Brazil, Indiana, Utah, Ohio, Virginia, Mexico, and now Gabon. You may not have had one friend close by for twenty years, but you've certainly had more than twenty friends in one year, and you have affected their lives, and they have all changed you for the better as well."

But some days those pep talks don't work.

And I just want to live by my friends. And have my kids keep their friends.

Some days I want to live like a tree, to plunge my roots deep into the ground going down and out—spreading, spreading until no storm could ever knock me over. Live like a tree, to thrust my branches and leaves up to the sky—warming in the sun, accepting the rain, dancing in the wind, and blooming.

But I live like a bird. I flitter from here and there. I soar through the clouds. I cross mountains and oceans, rivers and fields. And I make my nests in trees, whether they be ancient or saplings; I borrow the strength of those who stay. I search for my forest of trees and gather my flock of birds, weaving my life in with those who are settled in my new place. From within the strength of my newfound forest, I welcome others who are birds like me.


Here's me, standing next to a tree that is hundreds of years old in a Gabonese rain forest, part of the greater Congo Basin. 

After all these thoughts spill out, I arrive on a final one: It's okay to be a bird who is thankful for the trees. My heart is stronger because of it, and I will teach this pain and beauty to my children. 

We are birds, and we are so grateful for the trees.