It’s been said—and apparently, I’m going to say it here again in some way or another—that with age comes a kind of editing. I can obviously only speak on my own life at present but it occurs to me more than ever as I build boxes and roll tape off a contraption that took me way too long to figure out how to reload yesterday, that what I put in the box versus what I donate (or throw) away is happening with less gnashing of teeth/wringing of hands. I did make the mistake (not really, tis a brilliant show) of watching The New Look and now have an insatiable desire to go out and purchase a million-and-a-half pairs of wide-legged pants with perfect pockets while layering on all my chains and (fake) pearls (thanks, Coco!)…alright, I don’t have pearls of any sort and I have no need for any presently. So that’s my closet, but when it comes to just stuff, I’m happily culling along.

One thing that has featured prominently in most of my earlier moves was me sitting on the floor alternately laughing and weeping, photos spilling out of boxes, me studying every one as I remembered whatever moment was being had. Holding them close to my nose and studying details: “Whose apartment is that?” “Why did I give away that sweater?” “I wonder how she’s doing?” I had to really squint at these memories printed on little squares because that’s how photographs existed back before images were populated onto a cloud and zooming in can explode the details and the digital time stamp can tell you the when and the where of the moment. No more guessing at location but still a lot of speculation around what was actually happening in life right then.

Last year around this time, I went through this Kodachrome treasure trove process at my dad’s place as we packed up for his move. I found that he was a keeper (literally, I wanted to keep him always, but generally, he was, I discovered, the keeper of our family memories). Even though the dust was thick in the closet where all the albums were stored, they’d been moved from his bachelor pad in Pasadena where he’d landed after the divorce out to his place in Yucaipa. Last May, he went one way into a new apartment and the photos went another into my&D’s apartment where I sorted through them and felt many many many feelings and traveled to a lot, a lot, a lot of places, some of which I recognized, many where I’d never been. A passport into his young life all the way up and into middle age and beyond. I saw surrounded by a very close circle of pals: people from golf days, cocktail days, dating days. They show friendships—along with the Spencer ears, which jut out in a specific way.

Friendship. While I make lean my tangible belongings, attempting need / don’t need piles, I realize a similar culling has happened emotionally. With age comes an ache for simplicity. Not an impossibility to achieve, mind you, but more a recognition of what makes me tired and what brings me joy. Friendship does not make me tired and 100% brings me joy. I look around and realize that I’ve become really protective of the few rather than the many who occupy my heart. It’s an amazing circle of humans who, no matter the when&where of seeing each other, always hold space for me and me for them.

Currently a few of my heartbeatFriends are going through some very gnarly life-altering things. Big things. Challenging things. Bends in life wholly unexpected. I want to tell them I’ll take some of that load: Just make a pile over there of things that are really a lot to carry and I’ll pick them up and see what I can do. But I can’t. These aren’t those kinds of things. These are things that are theirs alone. As much as I want to lighten the load, the only way I can do that is to merely be present and hold them in my heart. To let them know that and also understand that they never have to acknowledge it by which I mean they can feel me always beside them. No words necessary.

Remembering the times I was life-challenged, felt total and absolute terror around my circumstances, and knew no one else could take up the situation although I was really aware that some would if they could. And that made the difference, that awareness. I felt the emotional hug and in my exhaustion was comforted even if I couldn’t quite say it or show it. I might have been frustrated, angry, confused—all those secondary emotions that step up to cover the main one: fear—making like a cat and pulling inside alone as I raged and wept in my singular tunnel until I could get into some kind of light but I did know the ground was seeded with my friendships and sometimes I did lie down on the grass of it to rest.

One dear friend recently pointed out that her perspective of life and challenges was directly impacted by the troubles she’d been through. The strength it brought on the other end even though at some point we may all look around and say, “Stop piling on weight,” as if life is some crazy trainer standing next to us on the gym floor. And in that moment, they might say, “I know you can handle it,” which is a phrase I don’t really care for. How do you know? I think. Can I handle it just because you say so? Are you an expert on me and what I can handle. Um, well, in the case of inner challenges, apparently yes, I am the expert. Even if I don’t necessarily want to pick up that weight, open that closet, pull down all the barbells to make me stronger.

And for my friends, I would gladly step up and offer to take up whatever particular weight doesn’t want shouldering … and yet that’s not possible. I can support from the sidelines, attempt not to use platitudes, have the water bottle (or wine glass) at the ready, and some kind of wicking towel to soak up the sweat of life. Just be there as they are for me.