Today is the 39th - good Lord - 39th birthday of my best friend, Ellen. Which is crap, when you come to think of it, because Ellen and I met when we were 8 years old, and when I hang out with her, sometimes it seems like we are still 8 years old, and her little sister Michelle is still little, and we have our whole lives in front of us, and there is still a chance for the Beatles to get back together.
Last time I saw Ellen was this past summer, when, as usual, she was the cool, trippy, funky, awesome, scholarly, adorable, geeky, loving person she has always been, except now she is an amazing partner to her husband Jay (another of the coolest people I've met, ever) and mom to Cory and Samantha, born some years apart but each one a unique and thoughtful and beautiful soul in their own right. One of the things I love most about my friend is that she is the least intimidating person I've ever known. She knows how to guide, and love, and reach out to people in a way that doesn't piss them off, or drive them away, or make them feel stupid. She just is. And as always, I'm scrabbling to keep up with her evolved soul, always getting trapped in the algae and deadwood of my own limits.
When we were kids, we had the good fortune - but not so good for Ellen - of having a lot of freedom. Certainly more than I ever had at home, that is. Because we were always hanging around at her house, and because her mom was rarely around, we ended up teaching ourselves about a lot of things. Like grief, when her beloved Sinjin died, but happy things too, like not really knowing how much you could actually laugh until you tried it (e.g., the Band Room, the A-School, the Young Ones) or how music could literally change the nature of your being, and the more you engaged with it, the more transformative power it possessed.
Because of Ellen, I had a magical - in the true sense of the world - childhood and adolescence. Our friendship has survived all these years because it is built on a foundation of memory and understanding and laughter and connection. And I know, that like her, when I get married someday, I'll marry a person who reminds me of that connection.
Recently I was at a party with other friends from high school and a number of them talked about how much they envied us, how they wished they'd had a friend like that, a relationship that survived against all odds and someone whom they knew always had their back, no matter what. It made me remember a day in the A-school, right before Ellen moved to North Carolina, where we cut in half the cardboard artwork we called "Sleepover." As we cut it, people around us cried, but we didn't. I think we'd always realized that it was just a symbol of what we were carrying inside. No matter what was to come - and the list includes a lot of unbelieveable items - losing parents, breakdowns, running away from home, crises of the heart, fire, flood, and finally ending up across the country from one another - we'd always be carrying that other half with us.
In Jewish tradition, the number 40 is binah - the word for wisdom. And since we are almost there, with thanks for the wisdom you've shared with me, and in hopes of someday being as amazing and evolved and full of peace as you are, I can only say in the words of our favorite band: I'm glad it's your birthday; happy birthday to you!
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