One of my oldest and dearest friends grew up in a very wealthy family. By wealth I mean the kind that comes from a lot of money and the many jokes money can do. It was Amy’s house where we always went for sleepovers and long lazy days filled with intrigue and wonder. At her sprawling house in Weston, Connecticut, rustic mountain style mixed with a strong Native American influence and a subtle contemporary twist thrown in for good measure. Ancient Indian artifacts, whimsical chairs carved from tree trunks, and other captivating treasures delighted the senses at every turn. A huge cupboard contained rows and rows of organic health foods like seaweed, tofu, and wheat germ.
A cool hallway led to a separate finished loft complete with a big screen TV and media center. As we grew up, we loved spending time in the loft because it was far enough away from the main house to allow for much-valued teenage autonomy, but my favorite place in Amy’s house was the huge second-floor living room where The old school piano stood up. On Friday nights we loved to arrange our sleeping bags in a perfect row on the carpeted floor where we would giggle and whisper late into the night, performing spooky sessions and holding our breaths in eager anticipation as the Ouija board spelled out the names of our future husbands. .
As a child raised in a modest home, my friend’s wealth continually eluded me. My only experience with saunas and hot tubs came from the local YMCA; I never imagined that these luxuries could be found inside a private home. In my world, private jets and winter homes in Aspen were reserved exclusively for the rich and famous. When I was invited to spend two weeks at a friend’s vacation home in Aspen, Colorado, my departure was a momentous family event. Tears welled up in my mother’s green eyes as she followed the distant path of the Learjet until it was nothing more than a small black speck in a cloudless sky. This was the plane that would soon take her only child over the rugged peaks of the Colorado Rockies and straight into an exciting new world of experiences she and my father could only dream of. Amy’s mom, sensing my anticipation, grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight as the graceful bird picked up speed and pointed its glittery nose skyward.
In Aspen we bike mountain trails, kneel in icy streams to scoop fresh mountain water into cupped hands, soothing our parched mouths with the crystal clear liquid. We loved walking the charming streets at night, where artists, musicians, and tourists alike came to dine at local restaurants and browse the shops and galleries. At the tender age of twelve our tastes were incredibly simple and it took little to please us; our favorite hangouts were the homemade candy store and the lonely Pac-Man machine at the local pub where we wasted all our spare change. One night we put on our best clothes and accompanied Amy’s father to a special performance of Sweeney Todd in a fancy dinner theater. I felt like the luckiest girl in the whole world.
Despite the material pleasures that come with being one of Amy’s closest childhood friends, she was well aware that Amy’s wealth encompassed more than just money and physical possessions. Amy was also rich in heart, soul, and strength of character. It is rare to find a person with the same degree of inherent kindness, boundless generosity, and enormous capacity for unconditional love. In fact, she was generous to a fault, often unaware of the value of her own money, painfully naive and dangerously trusting. These were aspects of her personality that made Amy not only more endearing in my eyes, but also, unfortunately, very vulnerable to exploitation by others who did not respect or appreciate her. I have never met a person who is better equipped to keep both feet firmly planted on the ground despite the protective folds of material wealth, while maintaining solid control over the things that matter most in life.
As the years passed, we gradually drifted apart, developing separate lives and interests, as childhood friends often do. After college, we both met in Boston, but despite the geographical proximity, the whispers and laughter of childhood gave way to rare and occasional encounters: a casual cup of coffee, a brief phone call or the occasional Sunday lunch. in the morning. Despite the inconsistency of these encounters, I always felt different after spending time with Amy; it was almost as if she saw deep into my soul. During the times when I felt lost at sea in the midst of the turbulent waters of my twenties, Amy was the grounding and integrating force in my life, always reminding me of my roots and who I am inside.
Amy found her husband relatively early in life. At her wedding, she smiled proudly in her modest vintage dress, glowing from the inside out as she stood next to her soul mate listening intently as John Denver knelt before them, playing his guitar and filling the synagogue with his tender lyrics. I vaguely remember sitting next to Amy in the kitchen of John Denver’s house on top of the mountain in Aspen, devouring ice cream while my feet dangled from the high stool. Such an experience would impress any child, but it is my memory of Annie Denver, the warmth of her eyes and the velvety softness of her hands, that has lingered most in my memory all these years. There was something special about Annie, something real, and now, looking back, I realize it might have been pain and longing that I detected in those beautiful eyes. Years later I came across an article in the Minneapolis Star & Tribune where Annie spoke candidly about her life and her marriage to John Denver. In the article she is quoted as follows:
“I had it all: a husband who wrote songs about me, two great kids, lots of money, a nice house, a beautiful place to live, even domestic help. Yet a part of me was as unhappy as I’d ever been in my life.” my life. and that scared me. On the outside I looked good, but inside I was falling into a hole. The hardest thing was getting in touch with what I was. Women buy a view of life that says if we have a new car and a new house. , it’s all good. But none of that will get you through the long run. I had to get in touch with who I was. I had to really get inside myself. And that takes incredible courage. It takes courage to risk finding out who you really are.”
In today’s tough economic times, Annie’s words are of special value. Here is a woman who on the surface had it all, but deep down in her soul, something was missing. Annie eventually earned a degree in Psychology and found peace in helping others. This is a valuable lesson for all of us to adopt at a time when we fear losing everything: the aspects of our lives that have the capacity to bring us the greatest joy, are those very things that no one can ever take away from us. things money can’t buy. It seems that both Annie and Amy share the rare gift of seeing and understanding this important truth.
Throughout my life, Amy has always been my muse, even though it took me many years to find out. Like me, Amy became a Ph.D. in Psychology and we share a common passion for creative writing. Amy recently wrote a story called Perspective where she describes a boy in her son’s class at school who was born with a degenerative eye condition. His visual impairment makes it difficult for him to orient his body in space, and because of this physical challenge, it is sometimes difficult for other children to play with him. As Amy gets to know and understand this child, she is reminded of the importance of perspective and how different the world can look when we allow ourselves to change our focal point. In her efforts to see the world through the girl’s eyes, Amy is able to see her own life more clearly.
I envy Amy for her spiritual prosperity. She has a special gift in her ability to embrace all the different colors of the world. Near the end of her story, Amy alludes to how she and her family fell victim to the horrible Madoff scandal. For the first time in her life, Amy now faces financial difficulties, and yet, despite the thick fog of injustice, she can see the world and her life with remarkable clarity. I can’t think of a person that she is less of serving, but more equipped to handle, a life changing experience.
Amy does not lose the glamor of material wealth; rather, she misses the freedom to enjoy a good story. Simply put, Amy loves her books. She is not attracted to designer clothes, expensive jewelry, or fancy cars. What pleases Amy most is the promise of a literary journey, and she is an avid reader. Almost as much as she enjoys a good book, Amy loves a good meal at a good restaurant, and she especially enjoys taking her young son out to lunch. She now has to count her pennies, so Amy has opened a new path in her life. She frequents the local library rather than her favorite bookstores, and these days her lunches are more likely to consist of homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than a restaurant meal. She accepts these changes not with bitterness or resentment, but with her heart and eyes wide open.
Last night I went through the shelves in my house looking for books that Amy might enjoy. I am delighted to put together a special package for her, delighted with my ability to help my friend maintain her greatest passion. In my mind’s eye I see Amy curled up in her favorite chair, her little hands caressing the cover of a new book as another creative journey begins. She hasn’t changed one bit since the day we met, and for that I am extremely grateful.
