Sunflower Sunday: Yeah, well, there’s also this

Sunflower Sunday: Yeah, well, there’s also this

So remember what I said about the unflappably stubborn dependability of being alone in this being human circus?

Yeah, well, there’s also this equally true, pressing fact:

You are never, never, never alone if you don’t want to be.

And not just in that we’re together in all our alonenesses way.

I mean in the big way.

Even when you think you are.

Even when you are certain of it and you would bet your house on it.

Or your dog.

If you want to be, that’s a different story.

But if you position yourself like a sunflower facing the sky, awaiting the almost-eternal promise of the sun, well, soon, you will not be alone.

I’m fairly certain of this now, so I’m going to take a risk, and promise you this, on the full faith and credit of Hannah Rose Friedland, whatever that means to you.

Remember those newly-former-strangers? The ones you felt you couldn’t tell your loneliness to when you went out dancing only a week before?

Well, before you know it, you’ll be sharing your life stories with each other as you drive around the New City, the one that is starting to get under your skin and tip toe into your heart.

You’ll all take turns that summer hunching yourself into a ball to fit into the trunk so all of you can go to the 25 cent thrift store sale on the other side of town. You’ll make plans to meet each other in the middle of the bookstore to talk again after getting lost in books, which they love just as much as you. You’ll eat pizza in silence on the sidewalk. Get free water together in a fancy Japanese restaurant, forgetting your thirst and the heat as you wander this new city.

They don’t mind if you talk to your best friend on the phone for an hour in the middle of the day; they are also partial to wandering off by themselves, as much as they are to wandering off to get lost together.

They’ll even wait in the crazy line of the burger joint while you run down the street to find your dream birthday dress, and wait for the other friends to arrive to join you for this much-anticipated feast.

You’ll gorge on meaty burgers and shakes and feverishly make 4^th of July plans involving “the Shire with cacti,” dessert lakes and art villages, New Orleans, camping, BBQ stakeouts and marathons, and paddle boarding down the river of the New City.

They’ll wait for you, sitting on the curb as you run down the street again to feast with your eyes on another dress in another window.

You’ll feel your appetite for life waking up after its quiet winter, which you weren’t even aware of until now, as the new city’s and the new friends’ hungers for life is contagious and you will do everything you can to catch it again. This you want.

You’ll then drive off to jump into the natural spring downtown, with its free swimming after 9. You’ll all cannonball and leap in, in your shorts and panties. You’ll howl at the super moon in a chorus with dozens of other strangers as you float.

You’ll float on your backs, amazed at your buoyancy despite your bellies being full of a day of brunch and New York style pizza for snack and burgers and shakes. And joy.

Joy.

How is it possible that you are floating when you are full to the brim with so much?!

But you do.

You float on.

Thank G-d for this gift of floating and astounding buoyancy!

You jump out of the spring together and run to the miraculously close parking spot your best friend’s mom’s parking fairy must have lent you for your birthday.

You drive back to your new co-op, where you quickly throw on your dream birthday polka-dotted jumper-suit-thing and walk to your communal birthday party with a pack of newly-former-strangers-now-friends.

You do shots in each other’s honor and eat cake made for you by these beautiful people.

You fall out of the hammock by the pool. It’s broken, and that’s annoying, but that’s OK.

Because of all of this.

One of your newly-former-strangers-now-friends brings everyone outside to you on the deck, surrounded by all the twinkling lights and the pool’s hushing lapping sounds, and they sing to you.

You call your twin-sister.

She is happy too.

You are happy together.

You slip off with some of these newly-former-strangers-now-friends to the hole in the wall, literally and figuratively, where a burly bartender makes you your first legal drink, the perfect mix of whisky, soda water, agave syrup and fresh lemon juice, a surprise gift from your new friend.

You go off together to listen to the live music, seriously good sound despite the silliest costumes ever worn by a band in history.

You make your way outside and toast and chat until sleepiness catches you all, a catcher in the rye.

You hug and leave.

You don’t mind leaving.

It’s OK to leave.

You know you’ll be back again.

Soon.