I Wish You Lived Next Door

     My friends are the beings through whom God loves me.
                                                                             - St. Martin
 
I schedule a long phone call with an old friend.
We talk for two hours.  Though there are years between our
in-person visits, we speak regularly on the telephone now that
we are both retired.  Once, a long time ago, we were young professionals who worked together and lived in the same neighborhood.  I rose every morning at 4:30 AM to meet her at the corner for a long walk before the start of our work day.  Under the magical spell of friendship, we never ran out of things to say.  Each step became a spot of glue that cemented our bond.  That was 36 years ago.  Time marched on, and both of us moved away, married, raised children, and worked a full career.  Each time I dial my old friend’s number, I am young again and back on the corner eagerly awaiting the sight of her.

In this early summer season as I set out alone on my daily walks, I think of those days and the summer game of baseball, all those home teams on fire and cheering one another on from the dugout.  Life is so much like baseball. The point of the game is to hit the ball, leave home, take the risk of running the bases, and then to return safely to home plate.

Some players hit the ball so far they make it home all on their own.  Others strike out; they are thrown out at home plate.  Some of them pout on the bench of life while others get back into the game.  Some are eventually traded.  There are some who come sliding back in on the seat of their pants chased by another who seeks to eliminate them.  Others just aren’t fast enough; they are thrown out despite their best efforts.  Some get injured and hobble home on the shoulders of their teammates.  But there is glory for those who hit the ball and even for the ones who get hit by it--the ones who leave home and make it safely back.  Leaving home requires individual skill and effort, but winning is about who takes the field with you, who comes up to bat before you and after you, who subs from the bench when you are down.  A lot can happen along the way, but returning to home a winner is a team event.  And it takes pals to remember the glory days.

Home can be a place, but even more so, it is a feeling and an experience.  It is where the important things never change.  It is the place where the furniture holds our people and our memories, a place where the walls speak to us, but it also can be the people who share those memories.  They themselves are an attic filled with all of the tender yesterdays.  Home is an enchanted place in my heart where all the people I love live in the same neighborhood.

As I enter the homestretch of my life, I realize the fallacy of leaving home to find our fortunes. We think that we are the ones who find happiness—always in hot pursuit, but truth be told, happiness finds us. We leave home to find our fortunes unaware that our fortunes are being built in this enchanted place in our hearts.

Now, I wish I could gather all the people I love and plant us all in the same neighborhood, a neighborhood with the best combination of privacy and proximity.  I am not sure I would care if I saw all of my neighbors each day, but just knowing they were near would be so satisfying.

It is growing more difficult to travel.  Sometimes the years or the distance are too much, but memory is a soft path, a familiar, well-worn road.  I round the bases often and find that it always brings me back to the street where you live. 
 

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