Living Spirit

Sometimes I think I am the only one that is like me. We are, in many respects, unique. But, I'm not talking about traits or characteristics or personalities. I'm referring to our soul, our spirit, the us that is beyond our corporeal selves. I want so badly to believe in kindred spirits, to believe in best friends, and twin-like friends. From as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to have someone who I could share everything with -- my secrets, dreams, and wishes. Who hasn't? Who doesn't? And as far as I can remember, I never found such a person. Many times I have been fooled into thinking I found my kindred spirit. And many times I've been disappointed. Let down. Abandoned.

Maybe there is something about me that is unrelatable (that ought to be a real word, we all use it now). Maybe I'm just not deserving of it. Or, maybe, no one can ever really relate because we are, as I said before, so unique. We're all capable of relating in some form or other. How else do you explain the diverse friendships I have? How else am I able to get along with just about every individual I've met on the face of this earth? How else?

And yet... in so many other ways, I feel like a ghost or spirit or invisible being walking the earth. I was hardly ever picked first for games or included in birthday parties. I give my all to my friends and even to acquaintances and strangers. They say you should be kind or perform acts of kindness without ever expecting anything in return -- unconditional love, they say. And I knowingly perform these duties without any conditions, but, at some point, someone needs to perform acts of kindness to me too. Someone needs to let me know that I exist, that I matter, that I am important. (Notice I didn't say I was never included or acknowledged, bless those friends of mine who were filled with compassion, the ability to understand, and who were there for me.) Maybe if I looked closely, objectively, there were indeed many of these acts of kindness. Maybe I'm just blind to them because none of my friendships survived beyond two years (after I left elementary school).

I try so hard to be there for my friends and to show them that they matter to me, that they exist to me, that I am thinking of them. I send them hand-written letters on beautiful stationery, I send them packages, I leave messages on their profiles in social-networking sites, and I try to see them when I can. I try to do the same to strangers and acquaintances, trying to comfort a distraught soul or give friendly advice or just helping them carry their belongings to their car. I do what I can to put a smile on a person's face. Even if all I do is simply say "Thank you."

I'm not a very emotional person and often cannot express this same kind of love in person or in spoken form, so I do it in other ways I know how. Maybe it's me wanting too much, expecting too much, but it doesn't feel like that same love has been returned much in my life. How hard is it for people to take the time to hand-write a short note after I've written a long one and have sent across the globe? How hard is it to check in on me periodically? How hard is it to just say 'Hi, how are ya?"

I don't have the answers. I only know that I will never stop doing what I'm doing. The idea that karma exists, the idea that people do truly care about me, the idea that I will someday find my kindred spirit, it keeps me going. I can't stop now.

I know we're all busy people and there's lots to do, but, sometimes, it's worth re-evaluating what really matters, WHO really matters. Send a quick text, write a quick e-mail, send a quick postcard. You may be saving someone from becoming a living spirit -- a living, invisible, unacknowledged spirit.



(It's funny... but we have this fascination about whether or not people would really, truly care if any of us were ever to leave the world. And, really, aside from a few family members, I'm not sure anyone would. And if that isn't true, then folks have not been doing a good job of letting me know my life matters.)

(We seek attention from those who will not give it to us, or those who would give it to us, but give it so sparingly that we feel neglected all the same.)