A Year by the Sea by Anderson Joan

Author:Anderson, Joan [Anderson, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2011-01-05T07:00:00+00:00

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SEAL WOMAN

March

In the beginning there was thought and her name was woman.

She is the OLD woman who tends the fires of life.

She is the OLD woman spider who weaves us together.

She is the eldest God and the one who remembers and RE-MEMBERS.

—Anonymous

She appeared in my life like a full-moon tide whose frothy waves smack upon the shore, trickling upward, refreshing the toes of the beachcomber. After our first encounter, our next—complete with an orange-and-purple sunset and several glasses of port—sealed the friendship, lifting the fog that had encapsulated me.

I was reticent, even shy at our first few meetings, having noticed her late husband’s picture on the cover of Time hanging over her desk—the famed psychoanalyst Erik Erikson, who coined the term “identity crisis.” Celebrity unsettles me, making me wonder if I can measure up. I had to stifle the desire to impress and, instead, strive to give in to just being me, with all my inadequacies. Fortunately, Joan reassured me that perfection had also eluded her. In any case, I had no choice as to whether or not I would be her friend; she had attached herself to me, as I had to her, like an oyster to a rock. We would be “stuck” as long as no storm came along and tore us away—me and an old woman with the heart of a young girl, opening her heart because she thought us kindred spirits.

Real connection seems to happen that way—two like-minded souls meet and sniff around one another like puppy dogs, then whoosh, a moment of fission occurs, pleasantries are dropped, closely twined feelings surface, and a relationship is born. It’s been six weeks since that afternoon on the jetty; we’re past the beginner phase of friendship, eager to jump into the deeper places where intimacies and vulnerabilities lie waiting to be shared.

“If we can’t share our real feelings, we might as well be men,” she joked one day last week, dropping one of her verbal nuggets. “Everybody is soooo serious, when actually we’re all a joke.”

Being “stuck” with my new friend is like having Tinker Bell or Cinderella’s fairy godmother stop by and insist on being of service. I have always had an affinity for magical creatures, for their power to transform mundane individuals into liberated spirits. It is as if I’ve been kissed by a muse—not of the Prince Charming variety, but rather, a ninety-two-year-old lady who spins out her wisdom, expecting me to catch the vibrations.

“Leave room for yourself,” she insists as we spend several afternoons working together on handheld looms. She has taught me how to weave, and now we are creating small tapestries that represent the stages of our lives. I was characteristically rushing the process, combining the colors too quickly without really absorbing what each one meant: qualities such as autonomy, initiative, industry, intimacy. “You must look more carefully at what it means when one color meets another,” she says, “to see how many strengths you have to work with and lean on.”

Through her I am beginning to see that every thread is significant.

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