Often, I wonder if my friends realize how much they inspire me. I doubt they are aware that I watch them struggle with Being. Being in their their twenties. Being in their thirties, in their forties. I remember mostly the loneliness of it - all that wanting and not having (yet), all those worries of not ever having (maybe) and all that seriousness and attempted grown-upness. Act like you want to feel was my motto back then.
Thank heavens for my girlfriends who make it easy to look backwards at myself and see beyond my regret and the sorrow. I see, in their reflection, how hard I was struggling, how deeply I was failing; how deeply we all fail. I doubt my friends know that they are teaching me compassion. They probably think they are sharing their laughter and their worries with me without realizing that while they are at it they also show me a million tiny reasons to forgive myself. I doubt they realise that they are largely responsible for this giant chunk of the gratitude I carry around with me in my day-to-day. I wouldn’t know how to tell them either. Maybe it’s not something that can be explained. Maybe it must be lived.
I hope, with all my grateful heart that you beautiful women keep on keepin-on, and one day, maybe even before you too are newly old, you will have the very fine fortune to experience this for yourselves.