There’s something rather wonderful about rediscovering a friendship with an old friend or family member that you haven’t talked to in a while. It is the fascination of meeting someone new, requiring the unmasking of facets of yourself and the inquiry into theirs, interlaced with the comfort and kinship typically only found in the midst of closer friends, familiar with many of your quirks and interests. It is the amazement of remembeing all that you had forgotten you had in common, the scramble to catch up on whatever you can remember happened in the last few months, and also the occasional feeling of disappointment or angst hearing about an event in another’s life that you weren’t there for.
I had the pleasure of this experience several times over the last few weeks, partly from attempts to harness the newfound flexibility of my quarantine schedule. I found it rejuvenating, though the cause of this remains somewhat intangible. Perhaps by renewing roots connecting me to my past by speaking with those who knew the “old me,” I was better able to reframe and extend the life narrative about which we all occasionally ponder. I could better view my current state in a more concrete context and remind myself of where I was heading and where I wanted to go.
I don’t know that these moments always leave lasting effects, but a part of me wishes that they do because these feel like the moments we are told should matter. A part of me also hopes that those I talked to were able to gain something as well. Both remain to be seen.