Hey Diddle Diddle, That Cat can Still Fiddle: Friendship Then and Now

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the stars aligned in the heavens and the dish ran away with the spoon, and on that night, a group of young people were brought together by the cat and the fiddle to sing and dance and generally make merry for the entertainment of others.  I call us young people because we were just that.  No longer children, and still not quite adults either.  That magical period when we still believed that everything is possible.

I can not explain what happened.  Magic is funny like that. 

But did you know that a group of people can fall madly, deeply in love with each other?  I didn't.  Yet we did.  All of us, all at once.  Maybe it was the music--that language of spirit--that drew us close.  That was part of it.  But I lean more toward magic.

Magic, by definition, is inexplicable, and I do not understand how our hearts instantly knew one another.  Some people call it soul mates.  Some, kindred spirits.  At the time I didn't know better than to call it anything but normal.  See, that is the problem with youth.  Sometimes we get so accustomed to magic that we don't recognize it when we experience it.  But magic it was.

And in that place of pixie dust and delight, we played.  Oh, how we played.  It was enough to make the little dog laughed to see such sport.  We played on stage and off.  On the bus and across 12 states.  For two years they were my best playmates.  We shared the same inner light--the same joy in living--and when we were together that light was magnified.  We glowed all the brighter and the world did, too.

But moving on is simply a part of life, and so I did.  On to the next adventure, I fully expected the magic to come again, foolishly thinking that those kinds of relationships would happen repeatedly. 

Then I grew up and found that they do not.  Impermance is the creator of magic.  Things that are rare and evervescent are, because of their fleeting quality, special.  Unique.  And, oh yes, magical.

I wish I had known that then, on that trip over the moon.

Then...

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, the stars aligned again.  They must have because five of those same women, now fully adult and becoming aware that not all things are possible--at least not all at once--were able to arrange childcare, vacation days, carpools, and travel plans to spend a weekend in Breckenridge, CO together.  And happily, the magic returned.  Some people call it soul mates.  Some, kindred spirits.  Now I just call it blessed.

We are, as one girl commented, like the butt of a bad joke:  a Catholic, a Protestant, a Methodist, and a Mormon.  All from various backgrounds and histories, but all still sharing a common light.  And over that weekend that light was magnified again.  We glowed all the brighter and the world did, too, at least our little world inside a rented condo.

We felt no need to go out, for everything we needed was right there--the need to be really known.  The need to be understood.  The need to be loved.

When I was a girl my father used to say, "Laurel, in the end, you'll find that your real, true friends will fit onto one hand," stretching his fingers wide.  I used to think that was sort of depressing, but I understand now so well what he meant.  To be really known and understood, to be really known and still loved--maybe even loved all the more--is an exceptional experience.  Magic.

We friends spoke without limits for three days straight.  We only slept out of necessity.  Women who have known each other for  19 years, who know almost everything there is to know about each other, who, in all practicality, helped shape one another...well, those women have a lot to say.  We compared notes on child rearing and aging bodies.  We talked about men and sex and faith and cooking and music.  We told stories.  We confessed secrets and dreams, hopes and fears.  We solved at least three of the world's problems.  We laughed.  We cried.  But mostly we laughed.

We laughed about who we were, about who we are, and about who we are becoming.  The most magical thing about these friendships is that they are not trapped in the past but are living relationships, still growing and maturing.  Enduring, I hope, forever because our hearts still know each other.

We've all grown up now, and we may not hear that fiddling cat so often as we once did.  Sometimes it may be easy to believe that magic is gone.  It's hard to hear its tune under the roar of responsibility, but when he plays, my oh my how he plays, and it's good to be reminded that the dish can still run away with the spoon.

Then: 1991-1993                                                                                                                                                                                  Now: 2010*

*Thanks Jen for letting me lift the photos.