by Diane Rehm
Each morning at around seven, the phone rings. It is my dear friend Jane Dixon, currently the Bishop pro tempore of the Diocese of Washington. For more than thirty years now, these daily phone calls have helped me to face each day. Our conversations are necessarily brief since both of us are heading into a new day at the office, but they are extraordinarily helpful and even uplifting. Whether there is a specific problem or a general unease, it can be expressed and even worked on, however briefly. What comes through in those five minutes or so is the love and support we feel for one another, the caring and the nurturing that we can offer to carry us through another challenging day. When we're on our separate vacations, we try to check in occasionally, just to catch up.
There are other friends, equally important to me, and, I daresay, to John, though I'm not sure he really recognizes that. The friendships tend to come through me because he is apt to be less sociable, and less willing to open his life to the demands of new interactions that are more than superficial. Occasionally he will meet up with someone he finds interesting, but he won't pursue that acquaintanceship to create a true friendship.
At this point in my life, I do wonder how much more broadly my friendships can extend. I realize how much time and energy it takes to maintain a friendship. It takes real work to be more than an acquaintance. Up to now, I've been willing to make that effort, but I also know my plate is full.
Dialogue on Friends
JOHN: Marriage changes its participants in a number of ways, some obvious, some not so obvious. In terms of our marriage, Diane, I'm struck by the fact that my life would have been really different if I hadn't had you to introduce me to people, to reach out to people, and to form friendships with people. At the end of my essay on friendship, I talk about you as the party girl and me as the recluse. That may be an exaggeration, but not too much so. Without marrying you, I think I would have led a lone—maybe lonely—life.
DIANE: Without me there wouldn't have been real friends in your life?
JOHN: Oh, probably a few, I would guess. But the countervailing strain in me is strong, based upon my childhood experiences.
DIANE: So, beyond your professional relationships—for example, I think of your partner, David Busby, whom you love like a brother—would you have found ways to open your life to allow others in?
JOHN: David is a good case study. Assuming you and I weren't married and I had David as a partner in our law firm, yes, I would have gotten to know him more, with some degree of closeness. But not with the degree of intimacy we've had, largely because of you, and the creation of a close relationship among the four of us, you and I, David and Mary Beth.
DIANE: And, of course, Mary Beth feels much as I do, and frankly, so does David as well. They're both gregarious persons, and the two of them welcomed us into their social circle, as well as into their family, from the earliest moments we met them more than thirty years ago. But I want to go beyond that, because I wonder about ordinary friendships among males, and whether friendship is a different concept for you as a man than it is for me as a woman. I can think of some men who enjoy real friendships with other men. You, on the other hand, with few exceptions, haven't really extended yourself into a male world.
JOHN: I think I'm the exception, not the rule. Men, by and large, do establish friendships of varying degrees and do things with other men—sports activities like golf and tennis. In my case, I tend to shun others, believing I'm probably more interesting than people I meet. That may be false, but that's my feeling.
DIANE: It's also arrogant!
JOHN: Yes, there's some arrogance, I would agree. But that's the way I am. In some ways, my best friends are you, David, and Jennie. One test of a real friendship is, To whom would you turn instinctively, without thought, if you had a serious prob-lem on your hands? I would turn immediately to my family, much less so to friends outside the family. I don't think that's true of you. I think there are a number of friends to whom you would turn, as well as to members of your family.
DIANE: Of course, because they are as close to me as members of my family. I have both female and male friends to whom I know I could turn in case of emergency. But it's not just that. Each of these people has helped me see the world in a different way. Each has opened a window toward attitudes and thinking about the world and other people. Sometimes I fear you are closed to friendships because you are fearful.
JOHN: No, I don't think fearful is the right word. Rather, it's a sense that the effort will not be productive, that it will all too often fall back on small talk, which you know I dislike and see as a waste of time. Much of the kind of conversation you have with your close friends I wouldn't have because it wouldn't interest me. You're taken up—and I say this with some admiration—with the richness of diurnal events. I'm not there. I just read a book review on the history of the British Empire. I found my five minutes reading that book review really rewarding. I don't have that kind of experience with many people. Now, you may say, “You haven't tried hard enough,” and maybe that's true. But at some point early in my life, I decided that, on my own, I could be an interesting fellow.
DIANE: To yourself. But what that does is to create a narrow worldview. You actually have one of the broadest understandings of this world of anyone I know, yet at the same time, your views come through the printed word, listening to music, and the like, and not so much through exchanges with other people. Then, all of a sudden, you'll have an exchange with someone who's totally outside the bounds of friendship and be really intrigued.
JOHN: But you see, my exchanges are with the people who compose music, write literature, create art—those are the people with whom I communicate best, although I am interacting with their works and not the persons themselves.
DIANE: But that's not quite true. You told me recently, talking about your work as a volunteer at the Hospice of Washington, about a woman who was dying. You came home and said to me, “She's a very interesting woman.” Now what's the difference here? That's why I use the word “fearful.” It's as though you're fearful of becoming involved as a friend with another person. Yet you're willing to have personal exchanges that don't draw you in for the long term.
JOHN: That's well put. If it's a fear, it's a fear of beginning what seems to be a potentially interesting relationship and then having it founder because the person doesn't show that much interest or lacks the kind of enthusiasm for music and art that I would want to see. Maybe I've been disappointed in the past—maybe that's one of the reasons why I'm inhibited. You know, this is a fascinating topic for me, because, as is so often the case, you and I come at these topics from such different points of view. That's particularly true in the case of friendship. On the other hand, I value the friendships that I've been able to cultivate because of you.
DIANE: And here's what fascinates me: you say you value the friendships you've been able to cultivate because of me, yet you go on downplaying the value of friendship, and remain more or less aloof from it. You say you don't like small talk and find it boring. Yet in that “small talk” can lie some of the largest ideas a person can offer. Sometimes I find myself digging for nuggets, looking for keys to what this person is really all about. It becomes a fascinating game, with some true surprises awaiting me. If I could express one wish here, it would be that in the future you would make a greater effort to engage more fully in friendship, and to relax your somewhat remote posture. I know that, deep down, the idea of the “loner” appeals to you, because of the parental models you've talked about. But at some point, to be really free to become our own adult selves, don't we have to shed those parental models and become our own persons? We still have time to change and, perhaps, become better friends, to each other as well as to others.
Vacations
John
Among marital pitfalls, vacations can prove to be a big one. The word “vacation” derives from the Latin word for “freedom.” In keeping with this etymology, we anticipate a respite from everyday cares. However contradict
ory our past experience may be, we're confident that the next vacation will be a success. We take comfort in the fragile smiles on last year's photographs. We're armed with a fresh resolve to have fun. So why does the reality so often fall short of the anticipation?
In my experience, this shortfall is largely the product of anxieties that the two of us bring to vacations. We have difficulty dealing with these anxieties, since they are deep-seated and therefore not readily perceived. Moreover, even when they reveal themselves, we're likely to avoid discussing them because of the sensitivities associated with them. To inject them into our vacation plans seems unnecessarily gloomy.
Vacations make me particularly anxious about the management of time. Ironically, they're supposed to reduce our pre-occupation with the passing of hours and days, yet I'm intent on filling each day with historical and cultural experiences. This calls for the allocation of available time, the preparation of a schedule, and the curtailment of diversions. I see this procedure as a rational way of enriching our vacation. Diane, on the other hand, rebels against it as a form of regimentation that spoils the anticipated pleasure. At times we've successfully negotiated our way through our differences. At other times, they've proven obdurate, and we have each struck out on our own.
Vacations can impose what feels to me like enforced intimacy. I'm expected to spend morning, noon, and night with my wife, a demand that's not part of our day-to-day relations. I'm reminded of the old chestnut, “I married you for better or for worse, but not for lunch.” The adjustment is all the more trying because it's so abrupt. Within a few hours of leaving home, I'm expected to thrive on this unaccustomed familiarity. Without goodwill and injections of humor, the new regime can make me feel confined and even trapped. Moreover, there are few opportunities that will permit me to escape in a way that will not make Diane feel rejected.
Vacations also require that I cope with Diane's fears about our personal well-being. During trips, and particularly those abroad, Diane has diverse fears of varying degrees of intensity. She is afraid, for example, that we will miss our plane or bus or train, have our luggage stolen, get lost in a strange city, be cheated by the taxi driver, pay too much for a gift, use the wrong exchange rate, or be mugged in a crowd. On some occasions, I believe these fears are legitimate. They may properly call for special precautions, and I don't resent her insistence on them. On other occasions, however, her fears strike me as unwarranted and downright silly. As she harps on them, I get annoyed and even angry. I try to rationally explain why she needn't be anxious, and I receive an irritated reply. The day risks being spoiled unless we can remember to talk with—and not at—each other about our anxieties.
Diane
In the past few years, John and I have experienced a variety of vacations: trips abroad, trips around this country, traveling alone, with friends, or to our farm. Perhaps the anticipation of trips abroad has, for the most part, been more joyful than the experiences themselves—with one exception. In 1984, to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, John and I traveled to Italy for the first time, to Florence and Venice, and then to Paris, where our son, David, was working to help John's law firm establish its Paris office. In my memory, that trip was absolutely perfect, with its ease of travel, reliability of connections, and breathtaking experiences of those glorious cities. I was stunned by the beauty of Florence and Venice, yet taken aback by their differences. It took me a day or so to adjust to Venice, but once I had, I felt myself becoming a part of the Grand Canal, the gondolas, the flowers, every sight, sound, and smell of that city. I fell in love all over again with my husband, and with everything around me.
John travels far more easily than I. By that I mean he is basically assertive, and without trepidation. I, on the other hand, am generally fearful, whether we're traveling by car, train, boat, or plane. Basically, the fear is of losing my way. When we're abroad, for example, I find myself reaching for John's hand far more often than I would in a familiar city. I don't read maps well, so I have no sense of where we are or where we should be headed. Perhaps I rely too much on him. I feel myself becoming more of a child when we travel together, assuming that he'll make sure that everything that should happen will happen. For the most part, I can say that we have never had any truly unpleasant experiences while traveling, except for one trip to the farm.
The children were small, perhaps David was seven and Jennie four. We were driving up to the farm in our roomy yellow Plymouth, with our long-haired dachshund plus two cats in the backseat with the children. This was before the age of mandatory seat belts, mind you, so the crate with the cats sat between the children, and the dog was either in back or in the front seat with me. In addition, there was a car-top carrier loaded with equipment we needed each time we went to the farm. It was raining, not terribly hard, but the roads were slick. The speed limit was fifty-five miles per hour, but even that seemed too fast to be traveling in those weather conditions. John was driving, and I asked him to slow down a bit. He did somewhat, but just at that point the car hit a particularly wet area and we literally began to plane. We took off! I could feel the car lose traction, leave the ground, and then, suddenly, spin three hundred and sixty degrees in the air! Fortunately, we landed in a slight ditch on the right shoulder, facing in the right direction. The good Lord was surely with us that day. Immediately upon landing, all of us were stunned and shocked, and John said, “Is everybody all right?” And then, in the stillness of that frightful moment, the children began to giggle. Not only were they “all right,” they saw the incident, now that they were safe, as something like a thrill ride at an amusement park. The cats were meowing, the dog was barking, and we were all safe! The car-top carrier had swerved off the top of the car, and much of its contents had landed on the right shoulder along with us. Passing cars stopped to offer help, but we managed to retrieve everything and stuff it into the car—all but the car-top carrier itself, which had to be abandoned.
I shall never forget that experience, because it taught me that in a single instant, life can be forever changed. I suppose I've always had that fear, and that day it was confirmed.
Another difficult aspect of travel for me is leaving home. I love the comfort and the beauty of our home and our garden. I love the freedom of movement, and the familiarity of our environment. I know where I can travel and move relatively safely. I can shop, I can go to movies and restaurants, I can be with the people I know and love.
When we go away together, I'm apt to be only with John, and while that can hold promise, there are many times I'd rather not be with him. He can be moody and very quiet, especially when we're at the farm. I love the peace and quiet of the farm, but there are times when I want more companionship through conversation. There are certainly times when he's willing to converse, but at other moments, his responses to my questions or comments can be very brief and not particularly welcoming. When I perceive his mood to be withdrawn, I've learned to ignore him and turn to other activities. I've gotten better at that through the years. Especially when we're alone, as at the farm, it has become a learning process for me to fall back on my own resources and cease to depend on him for my entertainment.
Dialogue on Vacations
DIANE: I want to start by saying that this vacation, here for three weeks at the farm and working together on this book, may be the best vacation I can recall. Being together yet going our separate ways as we've worked, being quiet when we've chosen to be, it's just been delightful. Unfortunately, that's not the way vacations have always been in the past. First of all, we've both had the difficulty of making the transition from work to play. You and I don't play together easily. It's not easy for either of us to totally relax, and I think that's part of the problem.
JOHN: I think it was during a vacation at Caneel Bay in the Virgin Islands that we learned our lesson. There was really nothing to do but swim, sail, eat, and drink in an admittedly lovely setting. But the lack of intellectual stimulation and activity left us snarling at each other. In one
of my solitary walks, I came upon the remains of a dead goat. This somehow typified the vacation.
DIANE: Yes, it became clear that we need a mixture of relaxation and cultural stimulation to create an enjoyable vacation— with the exception of the farm, where there is a combination of various activities, such as physical work, long walks, reading, and food preparation.
JOHN: One of our major difficulties has been what I call the enforced intimacy of a vacation. Being at the farm is a good example of that, because it's just the two of us, trying to arrange our days in a pleasurable way. I do agree we've managed to do that particularly well on this occasion, because we're both genuinely and deeply dedicated to the project of writing the book. But as you say, each of us has found time to do separate things. We've been together, and we've been apart. Trips abroad, on the other hand, have demanded that we be with each other all the time. I think, in that respect, we've grown and learned. You're now more willing to have me go off for two hours or so to see a special exhibition, while you may be with a friend and do some window-shopping. So that degree of accommodation has been accomplished.
DIANE: I wonder whether we're all that different from other couples, or whether we just expected too much. Perhaps I expected too much. Perhaps I fantasized each time that a vacation would be “perfect.” Vacations are never perfect. Take, for example, the early years, when we used to take the kids to the beach each summer. That was marvelous. But on the other hand, you didn't like going out in the sun because of your skin, so you would go down to the beach early in the morning and late in the afternoon, whereas I wanted to sit down on the beach all day.