As I’m taking my first bite of today’s cinnamon roll, I catch a glimpse of her. She must have come here a while ago, yet still in her coat, she’s looking outside with that thousand-mile stare we all know too well. The slight slouch in her posture. The woolen hat squeezed tightly in her hands – bulging from between delicate, well-manicured fingers. “Serena,” I’m naming her in my thoughts. And now she’s surreal.
Between long office hours and meeting with one of the few friends she keeps in touch with, Serena allows herself a moment of effortlessness. A moment of not trying to look approachable, attractive, at her best. A moment of not being “perfectly okay”. Of not giving a damn. The tiredness that’s painting dark circles under her eyes is suddenly unapologetic. After a day of shallow breaths, the sigh she gives inhales all the noise of the busy surroundings and exhales the quiet we could only ever dream of getting downtown at this hour. If she had an ounce of energy left, she’d get up and leave this coffeehouse before whoever-she’s-waiting-for shows up. “Escape,” she thinks. “Is it still an option?”
But then someone waves at Serena from the other side of the room and her face brightens with a generous smile. The smile stays there as the friend approaches the table with matching enthusiasm. In the meantime, Serena gains a few inches – her back now straight as an arrow. The coat is gone, carefully folded along with the hat on the vacant chair. The friend reaches out – probably for a hug – but before she gets halfway, Serena gracefully catches her elbows and performs a distinguished la bise instead. She thought no one would notice the way she avoided the embrace. She might not even be noticing it herself.
In the beginning, when feeling lonely, we seek comfort in other people’s touch. Oh, yes, Serena remembers being a little girl; she remembers fitting perfectly in her mommy’s arms. They’d spend every possible moment together. “Us against the world,” they’d shout in unison, running into the lake during hot ‘90s summers. And when mommy was at her evening classes to get a diploma and try for a better job, Serena would pull out her woolen lilac sweater, unfold it on the carpet, and lie down. Embracing herself in it like it were mommy’s arms, she’d say aloud: “Us against the world.”
In the beginning, when feeling lonely, we seek comfort in other people’s touch. Then we realize it’s almost impossible to find the arms that fit us perfectly anymore. We grow in various shapes and directions. The hugs get more awkward and rigid. We get more awkward and rigid, and… distanced. I have a theory that every hug we get puts us a little bit together. And yes, you guessed it, if we don’t get hugged enough, our bodies get more, and more loose. That’s why under-hugged people are very easily spottable for a knowing eye. It takes effort to keep a straight posture. It takes effort to walk or work, or to dial a number to that one of the few friends we are keeping in touch with anymore. At some point, the body starts avoiding what it so desperately needs. Like Serena does now. As if she got hugged a little too tight, she’d either melt or fall apart entirely.
“I’m so glad you finally could make it. I like that sweater too,” her friend says. “The color fits you nicely. Purple.”
“Lilac,” she whisper-corrects.
“New?”
“Vintage.”
They exchange some gossip and the latest news about each other's life. This cheerful, collected Serena is so different from the one I saw moments ago. She’s not faking it, though. She’s not pretending. She’s just putting much effort into being present for her friend. Being happy for that new boyfriend, who comes up with the brightest ideas. Like running her friend a bath on a Friday evening. Or buying her the ultimate combo of chocolate, chips, and sour candy when she gets her period. Or checking up on her when he knows she’s having a bad day. That perfect new boyfriend. Serena is happy he exists. It takes effort, but she’s genuinely glad he exists.
Something changes in the friend’s face. She recognizes a sign she might have missed before. That’s when I realize Serena is not invisible like I originally thought. She’s lightless. Like a tree that’s impossible to notice on a cloudy night… unless you ignite it. But the friend knows Serena exists, as if she knew there is a tree that’s supposed to be in the way and she expects its shape to appear in front of her no matter the daylight of darkness. She knows what Serena’s shape should be like – she sees her despite the darkness. She may not see her clearly, she may not see her at all. But she knows Serena is there. She knows the way through their friendship. So she asks what’s wrong. And then she asks again because some of us need to be asked multiple times. One to feel acknowledged. One to feel cared about. One to feel courageous enough to share.
Serena still wears a smile as her outwardness hides any trace of anxiety. Throughout the years, she has been conditioned to be okay on her own. Deep down she knows she will be fine eventually. She can manage on her own. She always does. Her mind is sitting on the fence between quiet undisturbed solitude and the not-so-quiet friend inviting her to… “Give me your hands,” Serena hears from the other side of the table. Hesitantly, she listens. A moment later, the undeniable strength and warmth of her friend’s fingers crashes through Serena’s skin straight to bones. Observing as the friend opens their palms, she asks:
“What are you doing?”
“Letting the fireflies in.”
I was taught to help by the open-palm rule. To never miss the opportunity to take my hand out of the comfort of my pocket and help someone who may need me. I was taught that every heart holds a certain amount of light; that mine holds so much of it that I can either empower others or burn myself. But the outstretched hand must be answered by another hand. Another person willing to make the effort. To make a change. I was taught there are people, who may need help but not want it. And it’s not for me to decide that I know better. There is compassion and there is respect for another person's dignity.
I was taught to help by the open-palm rule. But some people need that palm to be opened for a very long time. Some people don’t even recognize the gesture, because no one showed it to them before. There are also people who know it perfectly and desperately want to hold on. But they don’t have any energy left inside to reach out. There is no light in their heart left. Their body is going through motions day after day, year after year; and the soul is lying motionless in the darkness. Maybe that’s the remaining part of the open-palm rule. Maybe – if that’s where you are – all you need to do is to lay down and open your palms. Let the fireflies surround you. Little things. Little lights. Stranger’s smile. Bus driver waiting for you to jump in and not be late wherever-you’re-rushing-to. Your beloved mother’s sweater keeping you warm on the coldest day of the year. Maybe it’s too early for the big guns—the sharing, the fixing, the openly worried friends. Maybe only hold your palms open.
Let the fireflies in.