Hope for the New Year

I’m realising this will be my last post before the New Year on Wednesday, and it might be a few weeks before I post again thanks to the craziness of this holiday season.

Now for me, part of getting ready for the New Year includes a much needed haircut because usually I let my tresses go too long without a proper trim, letting it become this unruly mess of wavy curls and subsequent frizz.

Unfortunately, my friend and stylist was out of town indefinitely, (probably for a show since he’s pursuing that career path, and rightfully so considering his innumerable talents). Only it left me in a frenzy of trying to find the right person to cut and style my rather temperamental hair. Thankfully, I had another friend who worked at another salon, and she helped set me up with a stylist there who could manage my mane.

I chose this place not just for the amazingly convenient commute from my apartment, but because I had not seen this other friend in roughly three to four years. Thus, I wanted to take the opportunity to see her again. Not surprisingly, after my haircut and when she was off for the day, she suggested we grab a drink or bite to eat. I opted for food since I’m still learning how to properly feed myself, one area of “adulting” I continuously fail at miserably.

At first, it was great to see my old friend, this woman who I spent the more formative years of my journey into adulthood with learning about this big, sometimes dark world. We gave each other highlights of events which happened the three to four years we hadn’t seen each other, catching up as you do. Only, some of her highlights were not as bright or exciting as I would have wished for her.

I won’t share her story, for it’s not mine to tell, but as I sat across from her in the dim restaurant light, I heard the pain in her voice as she shared how she woke up one day after an extremely difficult plight and realised, “Fairy tales don’t exist.”

I sat dumbfounded. How could I respond?

In that moment, my world started crashing around me as the inevitable truth came to full fruition in my mind that we had taken very different paths since they separated four years ago after school. I felt like a part of my past, of my soul was shriveling up and dying. I began panicking because I no longer had a shared hope with her. All the things we dreamed about together as naïve, innocent girls becoming women in this dark, twisted world were no longer inspirations to her, but dismissive as non-existent “fairy tales”, while I sat there fully believing in them. Still.

“How can I share with her? How can I comfort her? Do I comfort her? How do I relate to her?”

All these questions and more started flooding my head as I continued to listen to her share, hoping, wishing there was something I could tell her to convey how deeply sorry I was for her, how I had failed her as a friend, but how I still dreamed and believed in all the wishes we shared as young women for they were becoming my reality.

I kept silent, not sure of what to say. Of course, I shared with her the changes my life had undergone most recently, the promising, exciting developments I was experiencing, most of which were tied to some of those dreams. What else was I supposed to say? Lies? However, I refrained from sharing my strengthened perspectives and philosophies of life. To do so, for me, would have been offensive and insensitive to her.

Now, she could be doing well. Her life could be great. I’m no judger of persons. Only, to hear her say, “Fairy tales don’t exist,” knowing intimately the context of those words, it broke my heart.

We dreamed together, and to hear her say those dreams are just that – empty, vain, hopeless – especially when I was presently experiencing one of those dreams coming true, I was flabbergasted. Emotional. Stunned. Confused. Hurt.

I left wanting to say so much, but instead having said so little.

I left weeping.

I left realising that if were not for the mercy of Hashem, I could have been as disillusioned as her. The sting of this quickly provoked my heart towards that place of preparation I felt I had neglected in this month of Elul as I was overwhelmed by the grace of Hashem for preserving my life.

Penning such thoughts is a bit controversial. I sound like a religious bigot. So be it, I suppose. However, I only cite Hashem and His mercy because in the past four years, I similarly have faced my own darkness. My experiences may not have been the same intensity as my friend’s, but pain is pain. One person’s pain does not negate another’s, nor does one person’s experience negate another’s.

However, as my rabbi loves to remind me, reality is not defined on the basis of one’s own experience, but on truth.

What is truth? I’m still figuring that out, but I have those who surround me and love me when I’m too blinded by pain to see truth for myself. Life is a journey of discovery, so I doubt I will ever have answers. Rather, I find myself only discovering more questions.

And that’s okay with me.

In the past four years, I’ve learned to rest in the ambiguity, in the uncertainty, in the unknown and unfamiliar, in the mystery. I’ve learned that it’s okay to simply have questions without having answers, and that I may never receive an answer as long as I live.

I’ve also learned that Hashem is kind, merciful, and above all, He is good. My life testifies to that.

So what would I say to her now? What would I say to my friend, maybe even as she reads this?

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. No one should have to endure what you did, alone and confused. And I wasn’t there for you, even if we lived hundreds of miles away. I pray, in spite of everything, one day you can learn to dream again because the world isn’t as bleak as it might seem. Some impossible things are indeed possible. There is always hope.”