Barriers to Connection

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." - Rumi

We tumbled through a life-affirming weekend—Friday's dinner dissolving into games and music with friends, Saturday's wedding reception spilling margaritas and laughter, Sunday's fall hike threading us through aspens ablaze in October gold. My eyes felt gritty from sleep deprivation, yet my heart expanded Grinch-like, swelling several sizes as we moved from one gathering to the next.

A persistent inner whisper craves weekend nights at home, pajama-clad and nestled into the couch with a magazine, novel, or remote control in hand. This domestic longing intensifies when the alternative involves navigating conversations with unfamiliar faces. I once made small talk with relative ease, but somewhere across the past two decades—accelerated by a pandemic that hermit-crabbed us all into our shells—I misplaced that social fluency. Here lies one of my barriers to cultivating platonic love: transcending superficial exchanges and investing sufficient time to build genuine trust, rather than executing an Irish goodbye the moment anxiety stirs.

Rob navigates such social waters with remarkable dexterity. Saturday evening, he confidently steered me between different clusters of guests, undeterred even by the CU football game flickering on a nearby screen. If social anxiety plagues him, he conceals it masterfully, and I cling to his side like a burr in a packhorse's coat. He declared the evening successful, though I felt certain I'd babbled continuously like a brook swollen with spring melt runoff.

The following morning discovered us hiking by eight o'clock in Golden Gate Canyon State Park, having outpaced fellow leaf-peepers to claim a parking spot. Frost glazed the ground cover flanking the trail, rendering rose hips unexpectedly soft beneath our fingertips and demanding warm outer layers for the first time this fall. Sharp easterly rays from the morning sun sliced through the warm yellow aspen leaves, igniting the trees like beacons of joy against the shadowed evergreens. We traversed seven miles, absorbing panoramic views, and I drove away feeling replenished—my spirit restored by movement and natural beauty.

This past weekend, my barriers to discovering loving connection revealed themselves clearly: laziness, social anxiety, inertia, misplaced priorities. We toppled them one by one. I'm capturing this reflection now as a reminder to myself—to knock them down again next time, and the time after that, because the reward of genuine connection always outweighs the comfort of retreat.

We're All in This Together

The sticker selection in our mountain wine shop sprawled like a colorful map of alpine life. Snow cats and multicolored peaks competed for attention with cheerful "I'd rather be skiing" slogans rendered in bright bubble letters as we waited to purchase our vinho verde. Then one circular message with relatively modest red lettering emerged from a sky blue background, cutting through the visual noise: "We're all in this together." I didn't buy the sticker, but every time I've closed my eyes over the past three days, I can see it emblazoned against my eyelids like an afterimage burned by sudden sunlight.

My mountain weekend with old friends was orchestrated by the husband of the birthday girl we'd gathered to celebrate—a perfect gift both for her and for us. The weather blessed us with evening chill and Saturday sunshine, the previous week's rain clearing in wisps of cloud so we could savor the sun filtering through pale green aspen leaves and summer wildflowers on our meandering walk to town. Our conversation flowed like the creek beside the path: children, marriages, careers, current events, music, literature, card games. We never surrender to television during girls' weekends—our voices provide all the entertainment we need.

After twenty years of friendship, few secrets remain and honesty flows as freely as wine from our glasses. We revisited the exhausting terrain of raising young children from our current vantage point of launching adults into the world—some even walking down aisles. None of us claim family roots in Colorado, so we became each other's chosen family, weaving ourselves into an unbreakable support network. When illness knocked me sideways, one friend navigated middle school orientation for my daughter, another orchestrated the meal train, a third accompanied me to doctor appointments. We rotate through these acts of grace as life delivers its inevitable and seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Now our conversations sparkle with the kind of openness that paves the way for riotous laughter: we compared notes on wonky hips and physical therapy exercises, sheepishly apologized for digestive episodes triggered by the previous night's lentil soup, and exchanged observations about how we and our husbands navigate this strange new chapter without children underfoot year-round. A few weeks ago, I'd reflected on how difficult genuine connection has become in our screen-dominated world, and this weekend in the mountains went far toward mending those gaps in shared experience. It felt like a friendship vow renewal, and I'm profoundly grateful.

We kept our phones largely silent and our screens dark, so Sunday afternoon's news struck like cold water, shocking some of the weekend's delight right out of me. Reading about troops and guardsmen, peaceful protests and dangerous skirmishes, all I could think was that sky-blue sticker's simple proclamation: "We're all in this together." Everyone—regardless of gender, age, political affiliation, or socioeconomic background—everyone who recognizes something has gone terribly wrong, we share this moment of reckoning. I don't know what else to believe, or how else to help, except to remind us all of our chosen families, our intentional communities, and the universal longing we harbor to feel safe and secure in the world we're creating together.

Perhaps that's why the sticker continues to float behind my closed eyes—not as naive optimism, but as essential truth. In our fractured moment, we need each other more than ever.

Connecting IRL

Men "wake up at 30 or 40 and say, 'I have no friends,'" notes Sam Graham-Felsen in his New York Times  piece of May 25. "They actually have a lifetime of friendships. But really, the issue is that they haven't put in the effort they've needed to. Guys forget that friendship is a relationship—it requires watering." Among suggested watering techniques: "TCS," which stands for text weekly, call monthly, see quarterly.

The sentiment echoes through Alison Espach's novel The Wedding People, (Henry Holt and Co. 2025) where characters lament their shrinking social circles: "I know. I pretty much don't know anyone anymore," one says. "Right? The only person I know now is basically my mom."

Every day, my inbox fills with LinkedIn and Facebook connection requests from virtual strangers—people I've never met or barely remember. I delete them reflexively, though the irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, shutting down digital overtures while craving real connection, someone to share the weight of menopause, children launching into adulthood, aging parents, and the relentless churn of alarming headlines.

My neighborhood friendships remain solid bedrock—women who walk and hike together, exchange hopeful texts, gather for book clubs and occasional weekend getaways, host potlucks where spouses mingle over wine and conversation. But busy-ness threatens to erode even these connections. We're pulled in every direction by emotional family demands, challening careers, and marriages that need tending.

When our kids were small, we gathered daily at the playground after pickup, dissecting the minutiae of our lives while children climbed and swung. Now we're lucky to manage quarterly gatherings where so much ground needs covering that evenings blur past in breathless summaries—trips, visits, life events floating through the air like paper airplanes, dipping and dodging before disappearing.

The pandemic certainly fractured something fundamental about friendship, drawing us inward like turtles into our shells, boxing us into separate houses where relationships flickered to life only through screens. I've never fully recovered my instinct to reach out first, perhaps too comfortable in the safety of husband, children, and work colleagues. But pangs of loss strike when I realize months have passed without seeing a dear friend—no shared celebration of our sons' college graduations, no updates on her ambitious landscaping project.

Making new, deeper connections feels like swimming upstream. At Masters swimming, friendly hellos and how-are-yous punctuate my arrival, but there's little opportunity for real conversation when your head spends most of its time underwater. My texts suggesting coffee dates disappear into digital silence, leaving relationships as shallow as the children's wading pool.

Graham-Felsen captures this modern friendship drought perfectly, even including comedian John Mulaney's sharp observation from Saturday Night Live: "If you think your dad has friends, you're wrong. Your mom has friends, and they have husbands. Those are not your dad's friends." While my husband actually maintains his friendships better than most, work and family obligations still vacuum up most of his available hours.

Graham-Felsen's insights apply far beyond men—to anyone navigating our modern world where social media, emails, and texts create the mirage of connection without delivering genuine intimacy. Perhaps it's time to do better, to become the friend I'd want to have. After all, these connections to friends and family represent our only true wealth.

Camping Gratitude

Marry an outdoors woman. Then if you throw her out into the yard on a cold night, she can still survive.
-W. C. Fields

I paused in my run last weekend, exhaling steam in the cool, moonlit morning. Two deer stopped and stared, no doubt wondering at this ungainly, dirty, and ill-dressed creature who dared to run down their road. After short analysis, they turned and bounded in opposite directions into the woods. I just grinned like a fool, having run by two mountain lakes and greeted the morning at a heightened elevation of 8,300 feet. Though sleep had been elusive I felt invigorated and optimistic. I knew the campfire would be lit and the hot water ready for coffee when I returned, and no greater joys could exist that morning, except possibly to share the day with loved ones.

The full moon was just disappearing when I returned to camp. My husband brandished the last two bags of oatmeal like a man possessed. "You're lucky you got any," he claimed as he handed them over, "the kids were HUNGRY this morning." I examined our happy, grubby children as they sat, full-bellied, amidst their friends. The oatmeal was gone but remains of toasted marshmallow outlined their lips and coated the tips of their noses. My late-night wet wiping skills had obviously been inadequate. They bragged to me that they had slept in until 7:30 (!) and then raced off into the woods to defend their fort against the 'stray teenagers' that were imaginary foe and fort-destroyers for the weekend.

The greatest gift of camping, besides the close-up view of moon and stars, mountain sunrise and sunsets, campfire singing, and shared meals, remains the wild play of the children. Disappearing in one grand troop or in two or three smaller pods, they happily moved logs, brandished sticks, invented obstacles (and wild animals) and - most importantly - rarely returned to the adult hangout all day. Their freedom was broken only by meal times, a hike around the lake, and a few bouts of kayaking. These activities were hardly limiting, as the older children ran ahead exuberantly on the hike and could man or partner their own kayaks. The younger children were a different story (especially on the hike) but still amazingly functional and certainly happy to be in the mountains with their peeps.

I keep a gratitude journal beside my bed at home and really missed having it in the tent this weekend as I had so much to add each night. When I got home - tired, dirty, and bent on unpacking - some of the finer details escaped me but I did write down 'camping,' and 'friends.' I scanned the entries for the past few weeks and noted that "friends' enter into my gratitude practice quite frequently, supporting everything I have done this summer. For example, I have "health and good triathlon - support of friends," "great trip to Cape Cod, visit with friends," "Rob's safe trip to Ohio, help of friends with the kids." As summer winds down I will be sad to say good bye to camping, to swimming outdoors, to children's freedom, but I continue to be grateful for the presence of friends in our lives and for their participation in the fun fall adventures to come.

Turning 40

I rounded the corner of the sushi restaurant last Friday and ran into that mingled best-case / worst-case scenario; a table full of smiling faces, each one accompanied by a drink and balloon (a special "Forty! Forty!Forty!" balloon over one conspicuously empty chair) and a surprise rendition of Happy Birthday in front of the completely full restaurant. Actually, I can't remember if they sang or just said "surprise" because at that moment I was a little lost in the fog of anxiety that hits whenever I am the center of attention. Later someone asked if I had truly been surprised, because my reaction was a bit "demure." I assured her that I was completely shocked and the correct description of my response would probably be "deer in the headlights."

I had thought I was going to dinner with one amazing friend, a happy occasion in itself, but ended up dining with ten additional thoughtful, joyful and sneaky pals, all of whom were happy to usher me into a new and slightly scary decade. After a rousing dinner conversation, several shots, and a delicious gluten - free cupcake, a subset of our group headed out dancing. I was thankful for my short-sleeved shirt and for the long jeans which hid my cotton tie-dye socks. I admit to only a faint knowledge of 21st-century dance music, but we were the lucky beneficiaries of a DJ who played Bon Jovi, Journey and AC/DC along with Rihanna, Usher, and Gaga.


Grateful for the ankle strength to bend and twist (a little) on the dance floor, and for the amazing friends and family in my life, I think I have finally finished mourning my spent early decades. One high school friend called the big 4 - 0 "the end of the beginning," and in fact, it feels a bit like that. In reading Ron Rolheiser's book The Holy Longing ( http://www.amazon.com/Holy-Longing-Search-Christian-Spirituality/dp/0385494181)I came across a statement by Alice Miller from her essay "The Drama of the Gifted Child." She says that we are all gifted children, and that it's only at mid-life that we realize, "What we have dreamed for our lives can never be. Thus we have a choice: We can spend the rest of our lives angry, trying to protect ourselves against something that has already happened to us, death and unfairness, or we can grieve our losses, abuses and deaths and, through that, eventually attain the joy and delights that are in fact possible for us."

I don't have too many losses, abuses or deaths to grieve at this point in my life, more the knowledge that the second half of life is sure to include more of these. I do have some dreams to let go of and mourn. I'm not published, I didn't/don't have the patience and wherewithal to raise the fourth child that I always imagined for our family, and I'm a far-from-perfect mother to the three amazing kids that I have. But I did feel validated by Miller's statement, and I have taken some time to recognize these losses - real or perceived - and mourn them for a while. Then, when an amazing evening like Friday's surprise party came along, I had plenty of space to fill with love, gratitude, and recognition of my blessings. Many thanks to my friends, husband, children, parents, brothers and sisters for helping me achieve the dreams that I have achieved and for supporting me with joy and hope in the coming new decade. I'll be ready for that big FIFTY balloon in about ten years. . . .

The Call of the Weak

"Power and strength can separate people, whereas weakness, and the cry for help, brings people together. When the weak call forth the strong, they awaken what is most beautiful in a human person: compassion, goodness, openness to another." - Jean Vanier

As I type - my sprained right ankle in the air- I am relieved by Vanier's defense of weakness. I have been nothing but weak for the last five days, and I cling to this novel idea that weakness can deepen relationships and can call out the best qualities in another. Since I hit the pavement on a morning run (in an awesome feat of gracelessness) I have received loving support from my husband, friends, and family. Help with babysitting, bag-carrying, even walking, enabled me to attend a spiritual retreat which inspired me in many ways.

In the western world we celebrate the strength and independence of the individual and rarely acknowledge any debts, needs, or failings that we acquire along life’s journey. I am this way still, though I jumped off that train to some degree after I had my first child, and was smacked so hard by the awareness of my failings that I could never quite recover my strong, proud, go-it-alone mentality. The truth is, I cannot possibly raise my children without the help of my community, and I rely heavily on extended family and friends for fun, exercise, support, and listening ears. Still, “weakness” was not a word that I would have used to describe this interdependence. Certainly I noticed that I was drawn to mothers who could confess difficulties and admit failures. Sharing stories about losing our tempers, allowing too much TV or too many sweets, forgetting playdates or teacher conferences we forged our relationships. Such offerings of our own limitations were the currency that we exchanged in ever-tightening bonds of friendship.

But the Vanier’s words about the weak do not truly refer to me, or my friends. I have health, economic means and the pathway to participate in the economy of political system of the most powerful country in the world. I have a voice – and my family has a voice. Vanier speaks to us with means and power about those who have none: the physically or mentally ill, the poor and hungry, the lonely and alone. If we can reach out to those who are weak, the benefits will be mostly for us, for they will call out what is most generous and loving in our hearts. An infant is weak, and calls forth adoration from all who see him. The weak who live on the streets, who are ill, or who speak a different language are not so cute or immediately appealing, but they can be just as needy and just as deserving of our care. Vanier himself lives in community with intellectually disabled and non-disabled adults; he founded a movement based on this model called L'Arche (http://www.larcheusa.org/)that now has 137 communities in 40 different countries, including 16 in the United States.

Everyone wants to be heroic and strong, and they can be, some of the time. Strength certainly has a place in our culture, in families, and in our communities. Yet no one can be strong all the time, and perhaps our recognition of our own weaknesses can provide a path to help those who are truly weak, through no fault of their own. Perhaps we can find commonality in our weakness and work together to lift each other up, so that more can find strength, and no one will be alone.