A Toast to Personal History

One of the things that makes me feel proud are the people in my life.  These friends of mine who I have had for decades now who have always been friends and sometimes been lovers, who are connected by love to each other.

What I mean by this is that, over the years, friends have made a point to meet each other for the first time, even in my absence. This has happened in LA, in Detroit, in Olympia, in Seattle, in Columbus, in Portland, and now again in Brooklyn.  This last meeting has been especially important because the two people would hear about each other from me for over ten years. 

When these meetings happen, I ask that the friends take a photograph and send it to me.  They usually oblige.  The photographs themselves are gorgeous:  Two people standing together with the stance of people who have just met, yet have known each other for years. Looking at the camera, they are looking out to me.  To show me. To say "HEY! This person is rad we both think you are rad and here we are standing in some random bar/wedding/street corner/conference and wanting you to know that you are important to us and that we do and will end up being important to each other for reasons that both do and do not include you."

I love it.

It is beautiful.

Sometimes, when life feels a bit chaotic, I lose sight of the depth and interconnectedness of the people I love and the people who love me.  But I am always reminded.  When it matters most,  I am always reminded.

Here is to seeing the threads of those strong connections a bit brighter these next few days and months and years.

It will always go to prove that nothing is stronger than the love that is built. Piece by piece. Day by day. Conversation by conversation. Silence by silence. Time by time. Presence by presence. 

I love you.  

Thank you for being a part of what builds me, and what keeps me shining and together.

All my love,

k.

(photo: Marie Consindas ; from an older entry of Yvonne Constance tumblr)