If there was a championship for holding grudges, my dad would be a shoo-in for first place and my sister would be a prominent contender for honorable mentions. Me? I’d be fifty feet from the podium with nobody but a disillusioned coach to half-heartedly console my loser’s tears. It’s a verified fact that I can’t manifest, hold, or in many cases remember grudges to save my life. If there’s bad blood, I have a persistently nagging compulsion to dilute it. That’s why the following blog entry is an ode to a friendship past, a concept I never fully appreciated until I lost my good friend Felicia.
If she’d been keen on entering beauty pageants, Felicia would have made a pit stop at Miss Africa en route to the universal title, no contest. A Portuguese-South African bon vivant that not only turned heads and captivated attention with her winning smile but with her radiating charm besides, Felicia’s was the kind of character you couldn’t help but admire. Incredibly inventive and avant-garde in her architectural pursuits, Felicia’s sheer excitement for innovation and creativity always imbued infectious energy in her peers. Maternal, comforting, hilariously goofy, endearingly frightening via her penchant for brightening the macabre (“You’re so funny I just want to cut you up, put you in a jar, and carry you around with me!”), and delightfully mischievous, Felicia was the gnocchi-gourmandizing self-proclaimed Charlotte to our Sex and the City quad. And when I was privileged enough to serendipitously be her roommate my sophomore year of college, I whole-heartedly looked up to her for the optimism and joviality she sowed into every adventure we embarked on.
She was a breath of fresh air in an academic world dictated by stress-inducing GPAs and successive all-nighters. A gem so hard to come by in life that I feel I must take this opportunity to apologize for the fact that my aversion to drama kept me from fighting for our friendship when I realized too late that it was already slipping by.
While enrolled in the Savannah College of Art & Design, I had a tendency to allow my crusade against depression to overshadow the utter joie de vivre that existed all around me. And because my melancholia stemmed from a very negative, and fortunately terminated relationship, it seemed apt to my naïve mind that the solution to my sorrow lay in potential boyfriends who could hopefully allay the setbacks of my past. While this theory proved true farther down the road when I stopped immersing myself in “the hunt,” my sophomore preoccupation with courtship distracted me from the relationships that should have taken precedence: my friendships with people like Felicia, who absolutely did not deserve to be dragged to college parties so that I could inattentively flirt the night away.
The lessons I’ve learned from innumerable misadventures in life, love, and camaraderie have taught me that we as a species need to spend more time cherishing what we have, and not regretting the absence of what we want. It’s the same for every facet of life: from dismissing the incredible value of our wholly unique and life-sustaining bodies because they don’t look the way we think they should, to forgetting to appreciate the possessions we already have in light of those beyond our reach, to pulling vacuous stunts like the one I did and neglecting the people willing and eager to be close to you because you want the type of attention a bygone companion withheld.
I don’t say or express it nearly enough but I am so thankful for all the friends I’ve accrued throughout life, be they from my past or my present, 3000 miles away or a couple blocks down the street. Each of them has been so integral in the production of my current identity and will continue to be major influences on my life whether I’m fortunate enough to see them in the years to come or not. And because she was such a wonderfully inspiring and entertaining part of my college life, the same holds true for Felicia. Even if our falling out portends permanence, I’ll always look back fondly on the bizarre “Rubball” games we made up, the costumes we giddily assembled and photographed, the hirsute havoc we wreaked at Urban Outfitters, the wall art we spent hours fabricating, the pirates we rallied, the pranks we planned, the revelatory conversations we shared, and the endless laughs we emitted. Moreover, I’ll always remember and wholly appreciate the joy that a friendship so significant can instill in a life lucky enough to behold it.
If George Lucas had fleshed out Dr. Henry “Indiana” Jones Jr.’s lineage beyond Sean Connery’s loveably aloof character, then Indy’s grandmother would be a fictitious interpretation of a real woman named Kathleen. My grandma is an adventurer of Raiders of the Lost Ark caliber, but with the added facets of socialite, food and wine connoisseur, avid supporter of the arts, and incredibly learned intellectual, it’s hard to decide if 007 and his cultural suavity wouldn’t be a more fitting metaphoric descendant.
Born first in an Irish-Swiss family of seven, young Kathleen spent what free time she had traveling the world via the medium of books, a pastime that never petered out and instead manifested itself into an adulthood of constant globetrotting, international charity, and (especially in regards to ornithology) ethological discovery. With a passport that sports the insignias of countries all across the globe, it’s become commonplace to expect that any random visit to her Facebook will yield that she’s in Honduras, Brazil, Vietnam, Canada, Belize, Chile, France, Japan, Trinidad, Australia, Argentina, China, Morocco, Ecuador, Ireland, Thailand, Mexico, or chartering her way via boot, bike, or kayak up and down hiking trails, canyons, and rivers that span the entire United States from Alaska to Hawaii and Washington to Florida. And to be quite frank, that list doesn’t do justice to the expansive escapades that would comprise my grandma’s autobiography.
A Renaissance woman through and through, my grandma’s life of excursion has resulted in a cosmopolitan artist, fascinating conversationalist, and superb chef whose inherited penchant for flavor only increased with the influence of multicultural cuisine. With a sophisticated palate for meals like salmon hash with tarragon and poached egg, asparagus, and huckleberries; a love for symphonic choirs and NPR; and the ability to appreciate the serenity of her peaceful woodland homestead complete with deck recliners and couches, wide-open glass doors, and interior décor amassed by a great eye, my grandma is the well-rounded adult who’s unintentionally instilled a reverence for seniority and retirement in both myself and my friends.
My grandma is the woman who escorted my sister and I to innumerable operas, plays, ballets, museums, contemporary dance performances, musicals, and galleries. The woman who effectuated our educations in classical singing and ballet, and helped organize and attended every performance. The woman whose review I seek whenever I want to introduce anyone to the delectable gastronomy of Portland restaurants. The woman who taught us rewarding, hands-on work in her garden whenever we started feeling out of touch with nature. The woman who sheltered my whole family in her enormous house of sunny windows and hardwood floors, invited us to play in her even larger yard of cherry trees, willows, and evergreens, and later designed a smaller home to be just as inviting. My grandma is a woman who can travel the world, be abroad for months at a time, and still be synonymous with the hometown she’s so assiduously immersed us in.
A far cry from the frail, blue-haired, nightgown-clad grandmothers of the media in both demeanor and personality, one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned from my youthful, energetic, and warm-spirited grandma is to make things happen for yourself. Actively pursue adventure, actively surround yourself with loved ones, actively seek knowledge, actively volunteer your aid, and actively approach life with a sense of wonder. There’s so much out there to explore, so many experiences to partake in, and so many people to learn something new from that whether you’ve borne witness to 79 years of life on earth or 17, get out there and carve your path, embrace the excitement, affirmations, and comforts this world has to offer. Employ cartography to chart your own life and go revel in the firsthand experiences that a television set could never impart.