Getting Mushy

The other night, a friend posted on Facebook (paraphrasing here, both his post and Lynyrd Skynyrd): "If I leave here tomorrow, don't remember me - just love each other." Of course, observant people saw a red flag, and asked if he was okay. He replied that he had lost a few friends recently, but he was okay, just "in perspective."

I knew immediately what he meant. There have been a few events in my life that reminded me of how short and fragile our existence on earth can be. A 27-year-old coworker died in the office with his head in my lap. A friend who had tried to get together with me, but I was lost in my own sadness at the time, took her own life. My wonderful, amazing great uncle Lou was killed in a bus fire (showed over and over again on national news). Even after that first death, but especially the second, I decided to myself that from then on, I was not going to be afraid to get mushy with people.

An undertaking like that takes practice. It can be scary. In the beginning, I was nervous, embarrassed, wondering if people would get the wrong idea, think me weird or crazy. Sometimes my I-love-yous are embraced and returned, and sometimes they are received tentatively as if hidden strings may be attached. But that's okay. I give them anyway. Somewhere along the line, I've found that giving love, giving time, giving gifts, giving in are all easier.

I extend this practice not only to those in my inner circle, but to others as well. For instance, at a recent classical concert I attended, I walked brazenly up to the timpani player and congratulated him on a single perfect note. What I got in return was a smile, an introduction, a handshake, and a buzzing heart.

Back to my friend who began this story. I met John when he was playing bass in one of my favorite bands. I saw him at gigs when he was in town about once a year, and on a memorable occasion when my then-boyfriend and I drove from Wisconsin to Ohio to see them play. Unlike Neil Peart, John didn't have to "pretend a stranger is a long-awaited friend". He always greeted me warmly and took time to really talk. When he got married, he and his Wisconsin-born wife invited us to their family wedding reception. I lost track of John as he moved around for his work, and found him again last year on Facebook.

When I replied to his Facebook post, he wrote:

"Hi Leah! I owe you many thanks for your kindness and your support. You are an angel among men. Love you. You have an amazing heart and a way that makes us all better people. Wish there were more of you in this world."

I am touched deeply by this. Years ago, and for a total of a few hours, I supported this man's music and was a friendly face in the crowd. You never know how much your seemingly small acts of kindness can mean to someone.