I read in a magazine once about a couple that had "soup night" at their house every Thursday. They would make a huge pot of soup, and there was a standing invitation for all their friends and neighbors to show up with a baguette or a bottle of wine. Every week there would be a different mix of people, and they would discuss movies, books, and who knows what else. Hopefully religion and politics weren't taboo. I always say that when we quit moving around and build that house in Alaska or wherever we land, I want to do this.
So there's that stimulating, dinner party-type of conversation, but then there's the even more satisfying one-on-one, no-bullshit, intense conversation with a trusted friend. After one of these, I always feel so relieved, like I've just exhaled after holding my breath. I’m not always sure why, because it doesn't even have to be an incredible conversation, just a real one. Sometimes I get all sweaty and worked up, trying to articulate my thoughts exactly and trying to get them out there accurately where they can stand on their own. When I do this, even if it's just a brief thought shared, I feel relief.
I think it's because it reminds me that I am human, makes me feel I'm really connecting with someone else in this universe. It means I've let down a little bit, not just handling life on my own. It can be scary, I'm not always sure if I can or if I should share something real, but I'm almost never sad when I do it. I crave real conversation. Not just for answers, which of course I love to hear if someone has them, but for the feeling that I get from the exchange. I throw something out there, and someone might just get it, and they might just throw it back with a little something on it. It's playing catch, and sometimes the ball hits the pocket perfectly and makes that great sound. When that happens I’m glad I don’t have all the answers I used to work so hard to have. I'm glad when I get to hear someone else's take. That feels more like living.
Just last night I had one of the most incredible conversations with my husband we may have ever had. We were making dinner and having it out about something, hashing out real feelings, not just sharing the daily exchange of information. At some point I realized that I had a story, a painful, meaningful story, from my youth, that he knew of, but that I had never told him in 19 years of marriage. I hadn't kept it from him, just didn't ever think I needed to tell him, or that he needed to hear it. I think I thought he already knew it somehow after all these years, but he hadn't heard it from me. I told him I would tell him this thing that I went through as a girl over dinner.
His response was kind of amazing to me. He got all excited and attentive and settled in to hear about the growing pains I experienced when I was idealistic, fresh-faced and so hopeful about the future. The story was about a huge disappointment and mistake of mine from when I was very young. It's not a story I think of or dwell on or worry over, I've dealt with it long ago. But it was new to him. His reaction astounded me. He was so pained by my pain--my 25-year-old pain I'm not really feeling anymore--that I was incredibly touched. He could hardly stand to hear the sad parts and he was so sorry that I ever had to experience the event. Then after listening he gave me his one-of-a-kind insight about who I am, and what effects may have been wrought in my life from the experience.
It was impossible not to see how well he knows me, and how loved I am. That conversation was really great for my soul.
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