There is something delicious and comfortable about old friendships-- the kind that feel like a conversation left off in mid-air and resumed again, even if its months or years later.
They are the kind of interactions that don't require explanations, background stories, or wading through the niceties of small talk, and can skip directly to the heart of the matter. History, knowledge & shared experiences wash away self-consciousness in those moments, and we are free to simply enjoy each other.
It's a shame, really, that the rest of life can't operate in the same way. Some aspects of life are just like riding a bike, and some require that awkward breaking-in phase all over again, no matter how many times you've done it.
Incidentally, my brother hates the expression "Just like riding a bike", because all though he was a champ on two wheels as a kid, he somehow digressed, and would most likely need training wheels again, if he were forced to resume his cycling carer. Which is my point, exactly.
I don't think its fair that just because one hasn't exercised in a few weeks, one's body acts as though physical exertion is something completely foreign and alien, some new entity that it has never encountered (I am speaking hypothetically, of course). I don't think it's fair that, come Monday morning, it's as though no alarm clock has ever dared to wake you up before dawn-- just because two little weekend mornings have snuck in and [gloriously] interfered with your routine.
Why is it that all renewal in life can't be more like an Old Friend? When we return to the gym after Christmas, why can't we say to the elliptical, "Hello, Old Friend", or greet the alarm clock with the same easy comfort & closeness?
This last week has been a push to welcome back the rhythms and routines of life, and one Friend in particular has been especially hard to start a conversation with. Recently, I have found Writing to be such an easy friend-- a natural outlet I gravitated towards & felt at home with; a place where I found & liked myself. But over these last several weeks, it seemed as though our conversations had dried up and become tired & forced-- more like an old, worn out marriage than a warm, fuzzy friendship.
Let the records state that I am horrible when it comes to discipline & longevity. From more recent relationships-- like knitting & embroidery-- to ancient ones-- like playing the viola & horse-back riding--I tend to be more of a sprinter than a marathon runner.
Yes, it seems as though the Thrill is gone-- that the well of creativity is dry, and I am left wondering What Went Wrong? I have decided, though, that Writing is worth sticking with, despite the hard work & awkward silences. Even though I feel that I have nothing to say, even though those first conversations feel forced & artificial, I know that if we keep talking, we'll find our way back. So then, I will continue forcing my hand (literally), trusting that it will get better.