walking away from a friendship

I think, as we age, at least in my experience, we learn the lesson of letting go of friendships that no longer serve us.

Kind of like cleaning out the closet – getting rid of the skinny jeans that I will never, ever fit my muffin top into again or the sweater that I loved in high school that is full of holes and I only keep for sentimental reasons.

Today, I am making the decision to remove someone from my immediate world, a treasured friend, a trusted companion, a person who has been in my life for over 20 years and has helped me through many a painful moment. Someone who has shared in the goodness and the harshness of my life.

And vice versa.

I have committed to no longer engaging publicly in Facebook debates. I am even, once again, considering dropping Facebook altogether but for a hermit, it’s my only contact with the outside world, so it really is a resource for me. The compromise is to read, and maybe “like” someone’s photos of puppies, and not respond – especially from a place of pure emotion.

Because oftentimes the emotions are anger, frustration, and disappointment.

Like today.

I bit my tongue.

Sort of.

Because here I am, publically bemoaning someone’s ignorance, although I won’t say who and I won’t reveal what.

But since the pandemic and during the years of the last presidency, I have often avoided reading this person’s posts because of my disbelief that my dear friend actually believes what they are regurgitating.

Worse than that: in their belief in what they are putting out there, they have demeaned and ridiculed those with differing opinions.

I am shocked and devasted. I believed my friend to be better than this.

If this were a casual friend, I would write them off as casually as I have many others during this troubled time. “Yeah, we were never that close anyway, ” or “I’m not so surprised.”

But this friendship is different; it has been deep and trusting and fun; now I am seeing ugliness that I thought this person incabable of.

I am loath to let go of this friendship because of our loving history, but I have to look at it like my closet:

This friendship has holes in it. This friendship no longer fits. This friendship may even be out of style.

If I saw this friendship in the thrift store, I would NOT buy it.

And that’s the thing – if, on meeting them today, I wouldn’t gravitate anywhere near this person because I know there are fundamental differences that would prevent a true and honest and trusting relationship, then can I let history be the only thing that binds us?

In other words, if I wouldn’t like this person upon meeting them today, then what does it matter if I liked, even loved, them once?

It is so painful to consider letting go. Even more painful to find out that my friend is not the person I so admired and respected, but…

At some point it’s time to shed the friendships that no longer serve.

It’s time to clean out the closet.

a little bit of Abbey wisdom

Anyway–why go into the desert? Really, why do it? That sun, roaring at you all day long. The fetid, tepid, vapid little water holes slowly evaporating under a scum of grease, full of cannibal beetles, spotted toads, horsehair worms, liver flukes, and down at the bottom, inevitably, the pale cadaver of a ten-inch centipede. Those pink rattlesnakes down in The Canyon, those diamondback monsters thick as a truck driver’s wrist that lurk in shady places along the trail, those unpleasant solpugids and unnecessary Jerusalem crickets that scurry on dirty claws across your face at night. 

Why? The rain that comes down like lead shot and wrecks the trail, those sudden rockfalls of obscure origin that crash like thunder ten feet behind you in the heart of a dead-still afternoon. The ubiquitous buzzard, so patient–but only so patient. The sullen and hostile Indians, all on welfare. The ragweed, the tumbleweed, the Jimson weed, the snakeweed. The scorpion in your shoe at dawn. The dreary wind that blows all spring, the psychedelic Joshua trees waving their arms at you on moonlight nights. Sand in the soup du jour. Halazone tablets in your canteen. The barren hills that always go up, which is bad, or down, which is worse. Those canyons like catacombs with quicksand lapping at your crotch. Hollow, mummified horses at night, iron-shod, clattering over the slickrock through your camp. The last tin of tuna, two flat tires, not enough water and a forty-mile trek to Tule Well. An osprey on a cardon cactus, snatching the head off a living fish–always the best part first. The hawk sailing by at 200 feet, a squirming snake in its talons. Salt in the drinking water. Salt, selenium, arsenic, radon and radium in the water in the gravel in your bones. Water so hard it bends light, drills holes in rock and chokes up your radiator. 

Why go there? Those places with the hardcase names: Starvation Creek, Poverty Knoll, Hungry Valley, Bitter Springs, Last Chance Canyon, Dungeon Canyon, Whipsaw Flat, Dead Horse Point, Scorpion Flat, Dead Man Draw, Stinking Spring, Camino del Diablo, Jornado del Muerto . . . Death Valley.

Well, then, why indeed go walking into the desert, that grim ground, that bleak and lonesome land where, as Genghis Khan said of India, “the heat is bad and the water makes men sick”?

Why the desert, when you could be strolling along the golden beaches of California? Camping by a stream of pure Rocky Mountain spring water in colorful Colorado? Loafing through a laurel slick in the misty hills of North Carolina? Or getting your head mashed in the greasy alley behind the Elysium Bar and Grill in Hoboken, New Jersey? Why the desert, given a world of such splendor and variety?

A friend and I took a walk around the base of a mountain up beyond Coconio County, Arizona…On our second day there I walked down the stream, alone, to look at the canyon beyond. I entered the canyon and followed it for half the afternoon, for three or four miles, maybe, until it became a gorge so deep, narrow and dark, full of water and the inevitable quagmires of quicksand, that I turned around and looked for a way out. A route other than the way I’d come, which was crooked and uncomfortable and buried – I wanted to see what was up on top of this world. I found a sort of chimney flue on the east wall, which looked plausible, and sweated and cursed my way up through that until I reached a point where I could walk upright, like a human being. Another 300 feet of scrambling brought me to the rim of the canyon. No one, I felt certain, had ever before departed _____Canyon by that route.

But someone had. Near the summit I found an arrow sign, three feet long, formed of stones and pointing off into the north toward those same old purple vistas, so grand, immense, and mysterious, or more canyons, more mesas and plateaus, more mountains, more cloud-dappled sun-spangled leagues of desert sand and desert rock, under the same old wide and aching sky.

The arrow pointed into the north. But what was it pointing at? I looked at the sign closely and saw that those dark desert-varnished stones had been in place for a long, long time; they rested in compacted dust. They must have been there for a century at least. I followed the direction indicated and came promptly to the rim of another canyon and a drop-off straight down of a good 500 feet. Not that way, surely. Across this canyon was nothing of any unusual interest that I could see – only familiar sun-blasted sandstone, a few scrubby clumps of blackbrush and prickly pear, a few acres of nothing where only a lizard could graze, surrounded by a few square miles of more nothingness interesting chiefly to horned toads. I returned to the arrow and checked again, this time with field glasses, looking away for as far as my aided eyes could see toward the north, for ten, twenty, forty miles into the distance. I studied the scene with care, looking for an ancient Indian ruin, a significant cairn, perhaps an abandoned mine, a hidden treasure of some inconceivable wealth, the mother of all mother lodes.

But there was nothing out there. Nothing at all. Nothing but the desert. Nothing but the silent world.

That’s why.

Ed Abbey…The Great American Desert

Man. Of. My. Dreams

I’m sitting on my deck in the dark gazing at the stars and enjoying the night air.

And the sound of 10,000,000 cicadas; so many that you can feel the air vibrating.

And I think that it would be silent in Utah.

Then I start thinking about all Utah-related things that I would enjoy right about now.

And I decide that I want to go to Utah and sleep there. Wake up there.

Not tonight. Too dark. Feral horses on the road.

Tomorrow night. Yes.

But here’s the good stuff…

It’s late, I send a text to TAM, thinking that he probably won’t get it until tomorrow, and say,

Let’s go sleep in Utah tomorrow night. No tent. No stove. No fuss.

Dinner here. Bivy out. Pre-made iced coffee in the morning. Breakfast here.

He said yes.

None of the others would have said yes.

This man knows the way to this woman’s heart.