A few weeks ago my godson turned 26.
And because life enjoys this sort of thing, I suddenly realised that I was 26 at his parents' wedding.
There are ages we imagine as permanent when we are living them. Twenty-six felt, at the time, very grown up. Old enough to be taken seriously. Young enough to still believe life would unfold in some reasonably coherent way. And yet here we are, somehow on the other side of that number, watching the children of our friends arrive there themselves.
It is disorienting in the way only time can be.
Not tragic. Not even sad. Just strange and a little stunning.
· · ·
It makes me think there are people in our lives who do more than love us. They anchor us in time.
They knew us before this version. Before the accumulated experience, the careful editing, the competence, the disappointments, the good shoes, the reading glasses, the better boundaries.
They remember us in earlier drafts.
There is something deeply comforting about being with people who do not require the backstory. They remember the original cast of characters. They knew the old houses, the old jobs, the old hair, the old ambitions. They remember who we loved, what we worried about, what we swore we would never become, and in some cases, very much did.
· · ·
With newer people, there is often a version of events to present. A reasonably coherent narrative. You give the update, hit the highlights, smooth out the rougher bits, make it all sound as though it followed some sort of discernible arc.
But old friends know better.
They were there for enough of it to understand that most lives are not built in clean lines. They are assembled in phases, accidents, detours, recoveries, lucky breaks, wrong turns, moments of bravery, and years when everyone was simply doing the best they could.
And maybe that is part of what feels so moving to me now. Not just that time has passed, though obviously it has behaved with absolutely no restraint. But that there are still people in our lives who hold the thread.
People who can look at us across a table and see, all at once, the woman we were, the woman we became, and the faint outline of every version in between.
· · ·
That kind of history feels more valuable to me than it once did.
When you are younger, you assume there will always be more people, more dinners, more summers, more chances to circle back. By midlife, you begin to understand that a long friendship is not just pleasant. It is a kind of private wealth.
Not flashy. Not performative. Just deeply reassuring in a world that changes faster than anyone sensibly agreed to.
Perhaps that is one of the quiet privileges of this stage of life. To have a few people still standing nearby who knew us when we were younger and brasher and less sure of what mattered, and who are somehow still here to witness who we became.
· · ·
I walked with my godson's mother yesterday. We talked about apps and supplements to lower our cholesterol.
But it didn't feel that much different than when we would dash up to the now-or-never sale at Holt Renfrew to buy "work shoes."
~ Danielle
The Midlife Syllabus
Lesson #16
The people who knew us before are a kind of living proof that we have had many lives inside one life.
Beauty, Grace & Daily Artistry
A small, imperfect pleasure:
The raspberry and white chocolate scones at Purebread.
Don't look at the price. Just buy them and savour them.
What I'm Reading, Watching, or Listening to
Listening
Sam is taking a course on the history of rock and roll. His latest assignment was to listen to an entire album from start to finish and write a reflection on it.
He chose Radiohead's The Bends. So now that's what we're both listening to.
This Week on the Blog
If you have been thinking about the fine line between enough and settling, you might want to join me here.