Cultivating Diamonds

There is an African wisdom that waits to be mined. It is delivered roughly, simply. It is for me to discover, as I tumble it in my mind. A mentor of mine delivers diamonds with unaffected timing, and has no idea that she just changed my world through the power of perspective.

American female friendship is… well, it’s complicated. We learn to choose wisely, to protect ourselves, to limit our emotional expenditures. I took for granted the concepts of guarding friendship that I had developed and so when I mentioned my resistance to develop a particular friendship, I was uprooted by one word: “Why?”

For starters, I’m an introvert. I’m awkward. And if I’m being honest, I’m only confident I can exert likability with great effort and for a limited time only. Without the challenge to think otherwise, I would still be dancing around friendships like minefields.

There was more discussion that followed her “why.” I don’t remember the words. I remember the power of someone swapping eyes with me for a moment; of letting me see through theirs without judging the narrow view mine afforded.

That’s friendship.

So now, when I get a call from a person at the edge of my orbit, and I know crossing paths won’t happen organically… I visualize the person. They are standing in front of me. I wouldn’t think of turning them away, if this were the case! I don’t always know what I have to offer, and there’s always some corner of my life that is a cluttered disaster. But hospitality whispers, “Go to your pantry. Make sense of the ingredients in your possession, no matter how humble. And then, offer them.”

I’m practicing this with a new friend. She speaks a language that I may not have the intelligence to learn, but I am willing to try. At her request, I’m offering her lessons in my native language— a thing so easily taken for granted in the States. We misunderstand each other frequently but we laugh, shrug, and word-search together. Her company could be enjoyed and she’d never ask for more, but today when I called her “friend,” she tilted her head and put her hand on her heart. It translated.

Ironically, or not so, it was a shared experience with illness that solidified a bond with my beautiful African mentor. I wanted a sage; she rejected that notion and walked beside me. She shared her struggles and heart longings without shame. The circle was completed when my battle with Lyme disease afforded me the insight to help her. The richness of a person’s character is shown when the tables are turned, and she taught me how to allow others into my pain, my imperfect coping mechanisms, my vulnerability.

When a much-younger friend of mine found herself newly diagnosed with a chronic, debilitating disease, I knew what she wanted. And I knew I couldn’t do it; I could not give answers. Digging deep for meaning amidst grief and medical bills comes with the territory of illness. I knew the place well enough to promise that life awaited on the other side, and then I showed her. I did what had been done for me and I became her friend. This is the single most convincing sign of life on the planet. Dead things don’t breathe, but friendships do, and slowing down to breathe with someone reminds them that they don’t want to give up breathing just yet.

I ran into her at the gym where we both go to participate in the daily routines that keep our bodies running. She had another young woman with her, mutually known. Sure enough, all the signs were there: friendship was happening. Living, breathing friendship.

There is no kindness, no invitation, no act of inclusion more radical than this.

I need to tell my African friend that she changed my life, but she will laugh and refuse to take credit. I hope I am someday in that predicament.