69.3 Goldsmith

Hello, future ladies.

Hello, future ladies. We’ve come a long way.

It all started with a dinner plate holding a few tablespoons of seasoned flour.

We couldn’t have known it, but that flour had been used to prepare a trout dinner some days before we ever started to scrutinize the plate. Should we throw it out? Eager to make a good first impression, we were in no position to move this rather bulky piece of needlessly chilling furniture from our tiny communal refrigerator. The apartment was small enough, and it was best not to rock the boat with her, our only Irish flatmate.

Soon enough, we three Yanks would learn that the plate was a microcosm for everything else that would be destined for dereliction in our roommate’s living space. The Irish way. In this construct, you don’t keep tabs on every minute detail, you’re not always hyper conscientious of other people, but always- for sure always- you are more than willing to peel off every bit of yourself if it will make your guest more comfortable. Irish generosity.

I don’t know if I’m exactly explaining this properly, but this version of altruism can work for or against you—often at the same time.

Scan 1

She’s a force, this one.

Have you ever gone back to a place you once lived, a space you occupied with sentry-like devotion and thought, “Wow, you’ve changed.”  There’s either a physical or mental composition that now reflects differently, and a part of you wonders how that shift ever came about.

When you’re younger, you tend to think that things will largely stay the same even as you make your way through the world and grow. Your lazy thinking expects that the conclusions you reached as a youngster are static touchstones that only serve to propel you down new avenues of experience. Accordingly, you mark off these people and places in your heads: some you might visit in the future, others you are sure they will fade into background like the black and white photograph you once developed in the photo society’s college darkroom.

And then you get older.

I’ve got a couple of friends like this. These are folks who on the first, second, and that’s the final straw blush all seemed to be people who would make unceremonious exits from my life. No particular hard feelings, just more an understanding that we are on different paths that require different ingredients and objectives. You both move on, you both grow. What’s weird is that you often don’t consider that maybe, just maybe, you could someday find chance bringing you both back together again. And quite possibly to very different effect.

The fact of a plate of fish flour. This was the pesky world that represented a modicum of existential tension in our flat full of young women. No way could I ever be that scatterbrained or impervious to the spatial considerations of others sharing my little world. I was positive that I’d never keep contact with such a disorganized person once fate finished throwing us together in the same college flat. The lessons would be taken from this human living experiment and I’d move on.

Many years later, I find so much value in that dinner plate that I can’t imagine I would have abandoned it forever. The lesson here is about burning bridges, or even more simply a matter of opening yourself up to the possibility that you and your prejudices will likely evolve into something else as you go along. You can’t reasonably expect that you will always feel one way about something. If you’re living it correctly, life simply won’t allow for this kind of outcome.

Heading out the door to one of many college balls that we gate crashed...

Heading out the door to one of many college balls that we gate crashed…

These days I’d like to think that I’ve changed a bit. I’ve got a better haircut, I’m a bit more scatterbrained (I also leave things out, and also manage to put my iPhone in the fridge), and my fashion sense is marginally better. Also, it turns out I have kept in good touch with all of my college flatmates. In retrospect, I realize that I would have been crazy to leave these solid friendships behind.

I think that one of the best parts about living comes when we allow ourselves to let go and take on faith that circumstances can change. And sure, sometimes they won’t change—but we all know that hope springs eternal. We’re always more than willing to stick our head out the door every now and then and see if the weather has actually gotten better.

All of this connection and reconnection makes me wonder about the things that I now believe, and I wonder what will look different in the future. In all honesty, I really don’t want to know—but if I learn nothing else from my past, I now know not to be so uptight about leaving things lying around the house. There are far better indicators of personal character, and none of us are living our lives with perfection.