"Joann"

By Jim Myers 9/4/1991

(I hesitated to post this, because it’s about me and it seemed kind of self-serving. Until I realized, “Hey, it’s about me!!!” But it’s mostly about Jim, and who he was, and that’s what, I think, comes through the most.)

When I park myself at this machine, whether it be to record thoughts, or prepare something for possible publication, it is a joy. Life is made up of many things, several of which I put in the “JOY CATEGORY”. I like hot showers, with an unscented and lathery soap. I crave the peace one can almost touch in the very early morning. Early mornings, filled with silence, make me feel closer to God. The feel of an old sweater is about the closest thing to being home, when home is far away. Old sweaters don’t adorn, they just keep you warm. Old sweaters, are like the friends we meet, and in time, come to know. High on my list of joys, are my friends. When I write about my friends, I am combining my joys. It is something I do, for myself.

As people pop into our lives, some of us begin by asking questions. Do I like this person? Is he or she real? Was that honesty or sarcasm in the voice? I find it especially surprising that so many of us look for the things that might be wrong. Every armor has its kink. When you spend so much time looking for kinks, you have to search by getting close to the armor, eyes inches away. When you stand that close, how can you possibly expect to see how magnificent the armor really is? I’ve come to understand that some people only want to see the kinks.

A long time ago, I decided it was better to trust than to suspect. Unless my instincts cry halt, I hold my arms open and try to give the benefit of the doubt to every individual I encounter. On occasion, I will be rejected, and rarely, even insulted. These events are exceptional. I’ve learned that by holding my arms open, most people will respond in kind. The reward of a possible new friend is well worth the price of an occasional insult.

Joann, is a new friend. At the time of this writing, I believe we have spent less than forty-eight hours of actual communicating. There is an excitement that comes with the discovery of somebody new in your life. They relate experiences, emotions and memories that start to make up the impression you will ultimately carry of them.

As she speaks, I listen. I strive not to make judgments about the words. When a friend speaks, they are trusting you with precious gifts. Whether it be based on events gone by, or hopes for something better, it is a gift. The finest way to accept such a gift, is to listen in silence.

Her face is expressive. When I see her brows knit, I know that she is trying more to work something out, than to relate it to me. When her voice raises, and her speech becomes hurried, she is talking of something that is both important and wrong in her life. When she lifts one eyebrow, it can mean a number of things, all of which make me smile. Unlike so many people I’ve come to know, Joann doesn’t make great use of her body and hands for expression. With her, it’s almost always in the voice, and the face.

Although we had met, and enjoyed a small amount of time socially, we were really only acquaintances when she came to say hello, one evening. Her timing seemed predestined. I was at the beginning of the most painful crisis I have ever known.

People are different in the ways they respond to someone in pain. Many feel lost at what to say or do. Others, may choose to jump at conclusions and make suggestions only idiots might follow. The wise instinctively know when they have no answers, but end conversations with, “I’m here if you need me”.

If fortune smiles, you find a friend who is, what I call, a healer. These wonderful people have instincts that elude most of us. Such an individual, is my friend Joann.

When I speak, she listens. She, like the friend she has in me, reserves judgments, and listens in silence. When she asks questions, they are pertinent, and often lead me to thoughts that give me insights I would not have seen otherwise. When I’m at an emotional peak that festers rash and unkind words, an eyebrow raises. That eyebrow gives me pause, and I reflect, and reconsider. When I’m low and uncommunicative, a simple hug might be in order (were I physician to this planet, I would prescribe three hugs a day to every man, woman and child). When she senses I feel lacking in worth, she fills that empty well. When I grow pessimistic, and full of self-pity, she makes me laugh at myself. To provide laughter in times of despair, is I believe, the finest of all balms.

Being there, is also a trait of the healer. Most people volunteer promises like, “If there is anything I can do, I’m there for you”. Although they mean well, few things are more painful than empty promises in time of need. Joann, has always been there. I don’t mean to suggest that she changed her life and rearranged her schedule around me. That isn’t the work of a friend, that is the sacrifice of a martyr. If she has time, she meets me. If she doesn’t have time, she will find time later on. She does these things, not because she pities me, but because she is a true friend. We all have friends who want to be there for us. The healer, arrives.

I have learned that crying, for a man, is indeed more difficult than it is for a woman. The old clichés about society repressing this in our males is a truism. I am ashamed of my tears, although I know they are part of my healing. I especially do not want other people to see me cry. A healer makes it easier to weep. I try not to cry when I see Joann, but with her, I can let the tears flow without shame.

I don’t owe Joann anything. I am not in her debt, because Joann didn’t do me a favor. I have always tended to avoid at all costs, favors. Joann gave me the gift of her caring. Because I am Joann’s friend, I can accept this gift. This, is something I am not very good at yet, but I improve daily.

I mentioned earlier that Joann would make me laugh. On the first night I talked with her, I let out a torrent of pain. I spoke of the crisis I had fallen into. I talked for ten minutes of despair, loss of trust, the torture of suspicion, and the agony of something precious that was dying in my life. After a short silence, she responded with a straight face.

“So, what kind of tattoo are you going to get?”

Thank-you, Joann.