The Masterpiece of Nature
The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, “What? You too? I thought I was the only one.”
—C. S. Lewis
After a lifetime of trying to be a good friend, I wrote this book to affirm the spirit of friendship, to praise what it takes to love another well, to better understand the physics of friendship, and to show that—despite what we’ve been taught—you don’t have to do it alone.
In high school, I had many acquaintances but secretly felt alone in a crowd. I wasn’t a loner, but I didn’t have any in-depth friends until I went to college. It was while attending college in upstate New York that I first entered the inner world of others, that I listened late at night to their pains and wonders, that I first felt seen and heard. It was that listening that introduced me to the invisible cord that runs through all human beings, only felt when we dare to open our hearts to each other.
Ever since, I’ve been blessed to have deep friends who not only accept me for who I am but are interested in knowing all of me, even the parts they don’t understand, even the parts I don’t understand. And I am committed to knowing them. This interest and care is the basis of family for me.
True friends are heroes and heroines who remind us that we are possible. They are the human stars who come out when things go dark. When things go well, they are often unseeable like stars during the day but in our sudden night, we see them and go, “Oh, I can find my way.”
Nothing has been more durable or life-giving for me than friendship. It is the sinew that connects the muscle and bone of being human. The pace of our unfolding and maturing depends on having true friends to journey with.
Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.” This book explores why and how this is true. It is fitting that the German root for the word friendship, berg-frij, means “place of high safety.” For safety is what radiates from unconditional love. In the presence of safety and unconditional love, all things grow.
The novelist Eudora Welty told us that for friendship to be indispensable we must listen like the sun, for listening is the gateway to friendship:
When we learned to speak to, and listen to, rather than to strike or be struck by our fellow human beings, we found something worth keeping alive, worth possessing, for the rest of time.
The something we find when listening, the thing worth keeping alive for the rest of time, is friendship itself. For being seen and heard empowers us to stand by our core. When standing by our core, we have the strength to be fully who we are. When fully who we are, we become humble instruments for each other’s inevitable transformation. At our best, we serve as inadvertent catalysts for each other’s eventual illumination. Coming together like this is intrinsic to our nature, and helping each other transform is one of the deep purposes of friendship.
The inquiry of this book looks closely at the discovery of our kinship, the nature of friendship, the inevitable trials by which our bond is strengthened or broken, the acceptance of our humanness, and the conduit that lasting friendship becomes to the larger forces of life.
Along the way, I tell many stories—of personal, historical, and mythical friendships—as I try to unfold the gifts and challenges of being close to another. To help you personalize your own understanding of friendship, I offer “Thresholds to Friendship” at the end of each chapter, which include questions to journal about and conversations to enter with others.
In so many ways, we need each other to recognize our gifts. And true friendship helps us own our light. One uplifting reward for friendship has always been the unexpected intimacy by which we know ourselves and life more deeply. The Greek philosopher Aristotle said, “A friend is a second self,” as well as, “What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.” Only love and awe can open us to this journey.
In the intimacy of nature, the sun is a great friend to flowers. Its light and warmth provide a high and great safety in which flowers grow. The human flower yearns for such a friend. However, unlike other life-forms, the human flower can live in a diminished state without opening. Often, we suffer under the darkness of clouds and need the radiance of friendship, so we can be loved into blossom before we die.
As Henry David Thoreau noted, “It is as hard to see oneself as to look backwards without turning round.” In this way, friendship mirrors the depth of our true nature when we need it most. Almost a century later, Eudora Welty again affirmed the unexpected gift of friendship when she noted, “As is true of all friendships: it might not have happened—and it did. It is a blessing.”
After forty years, my oldest friend, Robert, took my hand and said, “I didn’t give you one thing you didn’t already have when we met. We just warmed it open with love and truth until we blossomed into ourselves.”
This is what friendship does. So walk with me until we find the place of high safety where the most tender among us can come fully alive. Through friendship, we can offer our nectar to the world.
Seeking Truth Together
Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.
—Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931–1934
In deep ways, friendship is the vocation of seeking truth together. And seeking truth together is like finding a clearing in the forest in which you can breathe and feel the connection that exists under all trouble. Seeking truth together is the call to find meaning in life in the trusted company of others.
Aristotle described friendship as the art of holding up a mirror to each other’s souls. Yet, anyone who’s lived knows that friendship involves more than just mirroring. Love requires listening, holding, feeding, and soothing. Love requires being ready to help once your friend faces what they see in the mirror.
Once we resolve to be there for each other, time and distance become inconsequential. The deepest of friends pick up, after an absence, as if no time has passed. The German writer Goethe said:
To know someone … who thinks and feels with us, and, though distant, is close to us in spirit, makes the Earth an inhabited garden.
During the Tang Dynasty in China, the legendary poet Li Po wrote his poem “Letter in Exile” to his lifelong friend So-Kin. They had schooled together and became civil servants stationed a thousand miles apart. And though they only saw each other a handful of times throughout their lives, their friendship was a clearing in the forest of time in which they could see the Heavens and remember the sweetness of what matters, despite all their hardships.
Their bond was a star by which they could navigate the world. Though they hardly saw each other, their friendship was a constant foundation. Filled with So-Kin’s presence, Li Po wrote a poem for his friend affirming that “[t]here was nothing of cross-purpose” between them. By the end of the poem, he appears at once refreshed and saddened by his love for his dear friend. Thinking, “There is no end of things in the heart,” he signed the poem and had a boy ride with it across the vast plains of China.
I’m grateful that I have such friends by which I navigate the world. And though we’ve made our way through different professions, though we’ve each suffered different maladies and losses that carved different shapes of emptiness through which we now sing, we continue to seek truth together. Like Li Po and So-Kin, we remain in agreement about the deeper nature of things.
A poor friend requires his companions to live the way he does. A good friend encourages his companions to honor their own path while not judging each other. I admit I have had poor friends, so insecure that one life wasn’t enough to verify their existence, and so, they pushed their way on me. And I confess, before great love and great suffering forced me to grow, I was at times a poor friend. So blind, at times, to my own worth that I needed those around me to swear that I was real.
A mythic example of a poor friend is the story of Gilgamesh and his innocent companion, Enkidu. In this Assyrian tale recorded on clay tablets over five thousand years ago, Gilgamesh is a bored and empty king who, in looking to be enlivened, wages war against the nature deity, Humbaba. In his reckless attempts to feel, needless men die, including his only friend, Enkidu. In his grief, Gilgamesh seeks out the Immortal One, Utnapishtim, demanding that his only friend be restored to life. Utnapishtim can see that it was the king’s self-absorption and reckless attempts to stimulate his heart rather than feel that were responsible for Enkidu’s death. Shaking his head, the Immortal One is firm with Gilgamesh and sends him away to learn through his grief how to be a better friend.
These stories reveal archetypal passages we each must face, if we are to discover true friendship. The story of Gilgamesh warns us that being self-centered and reckless can put our friendships in jeopardy and leave us all alone. In contrast, Li Po’s love of So-Kin shows us that only beyond our self-absorption can we find the common ground where there is no cross-purpose between us. Only when our love of another mixes with our true concerns for life can true friendship withstand the years and miles.
Yet, we cannot plan such meaningful connections. We can only stay open to being touched by others and to giving without restraint. For it’s almost impossible to see a friendship coming. In 1777, James Boswell, the biographer and friend of Samuel Johnson, concluded:
We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.
When in the throes of cancer, I had a dear friend arrive with his big laugh and resolute commitment to help me through. His name was John Sackett and his laugh was as bright as his red, disheveled hair. He always spoke too loud when excited and too soft when suddenly moved. He was a golden bear, always knocking things over in his enthusiasm.
It was 1987 and I was about to have an open biopsy on my skull, to determine what kind of cancer was pressing on my brain. There was only one lab that could perform the necessary tests on the sample of my tissue. But the sample had to be refrigerated and it was a three-hour drive south of the hospital. Unexpectedly, there was lots of red tape about insurance and proper protocols. So, with my head shaved, I was made to wait in the foyer of the operating room till this could be figured out. After forty-five minutes, I was wheeled in.
I learned later that John had pushed his way in to see my neurosurgeon and said, “I’ll drive the sample myself!” And he did just that, racing down the New York State Thruway with tissue from my skull in a cooler beside him. Without knowing of his kindness, I slept in the hospital.
John died eighteen years ago from his own journey with cancer. I think of him often and thank him just as often. Like Gilgamesh in his grief for Enkidu and Li Po in his love for So-Kin, I send the beat of my heart to John somewhere on the other side. John’s love taught me that though no one can cross the sea of trouble for you, friends are oars.
More recently, I was flying over the Pacific Ocean, on my way to Maui, to meet a friend who has a deep passion for seeking truth, Oprah Winfrey. She had kindly invited me to come for a conversation that would be filmed as part of her Super Soul Sunday TV show.
I had never been to Hawaii and so read all I could about the string of jewels laced in the middle of the Pacific. One place on Maui fascinated me, a delicate bamboo forest, known for the bend and hollow of its slender trees. The natives call this grove Paia, which means “a clearing in the forest.”
During the night flight, I wrote and emailed the following poem to Oprah in anticipation of our conversation:
We agree to meet half way
round the world where the ocean
waited thousands of years before
opening its clear mouth to speak
this island under the sun. All to
remember: we are students of the
large stillness, struggling with our
little stillness. Never knowing what
will rise between us, we meet beyond
the bamboo forest and bend in
the light, hollow as these stalks,
listening for a trace of the
beginning, as we do.
When we can listen together, never knowing what will rise between us, evoking the large stillness while struggling with our little stillness, we are practicing spiritual friendship.
I want to share a moment from my time in Maui, because it speaks volumes about the nature of friendship. Off camera, before we began to record, Oprah pulled me aside and said, “This is your time. I don’t want you to leave anything unsaid that’s on your heart.” I felt so welcomed and empowered that I believed her. I felt her belief in me. Because of this, we entered such a deep space together that I left more myself. And it has stayed with me.
On the flight home, I realized that my soul had grown for being in my friend’s company. Isn’t this the work of friendship? What more can we ask of each other than to grow in each other’s company? And so, I’m compelled to say to you, “This is your time. Receive everything and don’t leave anything unsaid that’s on your heart.”
Seeking truth together is like finding a clearing in the forest in which you can breathe and feel the connection that exists under all trouble.
Thresholds to Friendship
In your journal, tell the story of a time when you sought truth with another. How did this journey impact you and your relationship?In conversation with a loved one, tell the story of a friend in whose company you have grown to be more yourself. Later, write a letter of gratitude to this friend, mirroring the gifts of soul you see in them.
Some Trusted Other
It is most surely true that no [one] can safely enter the dark gate of the shadow world without knowing that some deeply loved and trusted person has absolute faith in the rightness of [their] journey and in [their] courage and ability to come through.
—Helen Luke
We are born into a great paradox, which is that no one can live your life for you and no one can make it alone. Each of us must face life and ourselves in order to become who we were born to be, and each of us needs some trusted other to do so. All the traditions speak of a glowing bond with others that is needed to move through the tangle that is our lives. The poet John O’ Donohue describes this as the Irish notion of a soul friend:
In the Celtic tradition, there is a beautiful understanding of love and friendship … The old Gaelic term for this is anam cara. Anam is the Gaelic word for soul and cara is the word for friend. So anam cara in the Celtic world was the “soul friend” … It originally referred to someone to whom you confessed, revealing the hidden intimacies of your life. With the anam cara you could share your inner-most self, your mind and your heart … When you had an anam cara, your friendship cut across all convention, morality, and category. You were joined in an ancient and eternal way with the “friend of your soul.”
I’m blessed to have a constellation of soul friends, with whom I share the intimacies of life. I would not be here if not for their love. My wife, Susan, is a strong and tender soul friend. Like many life partners, we have held each other up countless times. When I have had to face my demons, she has stayed close with her care without blocking my gaze. For forty years, my friend of the long path, Robert, has affirmed my deepest being, and I his, as we keep returning with wonder to the edge of Eternity. He is an enduring soul friend. And years ago, my friend of the long sea, Paul, held me firmly as the doctor pulled a tube from my lung. We have been there for each other ever since. And my men’s group is a cadre of soul friends. Our commitment to bear witness to each other and lift each other up has become a sturdy raft in the river of our days.
Aristotle said, “Good will is the beginning of friendship.” It makes me think of another soul friend, Henk, who lives in Charleston. When our beloved dog Mira died, we were raw and adrift, and he offered to fly to be with us in Michigan. He said, “I will do the dishes, buy your groceries, fold your laundry, whatever you need. Just say the word and I’ll be on a plane. We don’t even have to talk.” His offer alone brought us closer.
Yet, I also want to acknowledge how hard it can be to love another and be true to yourself at the same time. Learning how to love another without giving yourself away is a lifelong challenge. For it takes a quiet courage to stay loving and to stand by your core. Over the years, I’ve learned that when I can stay close to what my heart knows to be true, all manner of love will unfold in time. I’ve also learned that being fully alive requires both finding trusted others as well as being a trusted other. For trusting and being trusted allow us to blossom.
Nevertheless, it is difficult, at times, to discern who our soul friends are. As a practice, I know whether I am in the presence of a friend when who I am is welcomed or pushed away. If someone loves me, they will welcome all of me and encourage my growth. When loved and welcomed, I want to tell my truth. But if an essential part of who I am is muffled or rejected, it’s a sign that I need to leave and find a safe space where I can speak what is true and grow. Then, in the safety of my own counsel, I can see things as they are and ask, “What kind of relationship is possible when who you are is not welcome?”
Cicero said, “In friendship there can be no element of show or pretense; everything in it is honest and spontaneous.” So, one guide to discerning if we are in the company of a trusted other is if they meet us with honesty, spontaneity of emotion, and without pretense.
This brings to mind the night I met Tom. As soon as we met, I could see how open his eyes were and how soft his heart. He taught philosophy at a small liberal arts college in the Midwest. Later, after we’d pushed through the newness of first meeting, we began to speak of how we’d each come this far. Daring to be real, we faced each other, like lost hikers whose trek turns into a search for what will keep them warm and alive. In that raw silence, we began to trace old maps and trade stories from the twists and turns of our lives. We became quick friends.
When we reached a clearing of heart that felt familiar, I asked Tom what had happened that made him drop below into the heart of things. He reached way inside and sighed. “Twelve years ago, I lost my son in a car accident. I was devastated and lost. No one knew how to talk to me. Everyone kept walking around me. It was a very bad time.”
He fiddled with his fork as if it were something very fragile and continued, “About six weeks after my boy’s death, Jack, a man I barely knew, left me a note. It said, ‘How are you doing? I’d be happy to take a walk with you and your son, if you want.’ I was desperate. I grabbed onto Jack and haven’t let go of him since.”
Over the years, I’ve learned that each friendship evolves a language of its own. Each difficulty and joy experienced together unearths another word in that language. Such speech is more earned than private. And what is shared is deep. But the opposite is equally true. Each time we turn away from each other, we lose a word, and a piece of understanding between us evaporates.
Every day, we learn how to speak: a word at a time, an earned feeling at a time, an insight at a time. In this way, our lives are filled with symbols of how we have cared and been cared for. Our experiences unearth fresh words, which give rise to landmarks between us until we and our trusted others have our own version of the one archetypal mythology that carries us all from birth to death.
For me and my trusted others, dolphin is a symbol for the rib I lost to cancer and the breach of resilience that followed. Heron is a symbol for the voice of my soul that glides when I surrender and listen. And oar is a symbol for the steady effort to stay true. These are just a few words that point to what can’t be voiced. So, if you see someone carrying an image of the deeper world, ask for its story and you just might discover that you are soul friends.
Through friendship after friendship, I keep learning that underneath all trouble, there is only one common, original language, expressed through infinite personal dialects. Being fully awake requires the effort to surface our own direct speech while listening for the one original tongue in everyone we meet. The place we uncover when we share these symbols and the stories that give rise to them—this is the place of high safety that makes life bearable. The asking, the telling, and the listening are how we practice the art of trust.
In my twenties, I discovered a story of trust and friendship between the English playwright Ben Jonson and the Scottish poet William Drummond. In 1618, at the age of forty-six, Ben Jonson walked from Darnton, England, to Leith, Scotland, some two hundred miles, to see his friend William Drummond. He spent nearly a year with Drummond before returning to England on foot, as he came.
Out of Drummond’s records, we have Ben Jonson’s Conversations with William Drummond, first published in 1711, an extant journal of sorts. Jonson was a fierce character. At the age of twenty-six, he resolved an argument with the actor Gabriel Spenser by a duel of swords wherein Spenser was slain and Jonson was imprisoned. En route to the gallows, he was released at the behest of a Catholic priest. Later, in 1603, Jonson’s eldest son, Benjamin, died of bubonic plague. He was seven. Jonson never recovered from the loss of his son.
The intense playwright must have trusted Drummond deeply to make such a journey. It appears that Drummond was Jonson’s trusted other, his anam cara. In time, I found myself compelled to imagine their conversation after Jonson’s long walk to Scotland. This became the title poem of my first book, God, the Maker of the Bed, and the Painter.
Copyright © 2024 by Mark Nepo
