Howl.

Friendship. Cocaine. Pack of Wolves.

I was talking with an old friend the other day about friendship. We spoke about how we met, the trouble we got ourselves into, the times we grew apart, and the times we came back together. Our connection was obvious from the start, and our bond, like family, unbreakable. We reminisced about that NYC summer somewhere in the '90s when I stayed with him for a stint. He lived in the West Village at the top of a six-floor walk-up, and I still remember walking up those damn stairs, which would wind anyone at any age. We endlessly walked around the streets, talking, eating, drinking way to many gin and tonics, staying up late listening to the Rolling Stones, rambling on and on until the sun came up.

I never really did drugs until that summer, but my friend did, so I thought it was the perfect opportunity to see what all the fuss was about. We went to some seedy bar in the meat packing district to get some cocaine from the bartender (already shady!). He gave me the bag, and I went into the bathroom stall, staring at this tiny white bag of coke, recalling all the scenes in movies I saw about this shit, and snorted it. I waited for some magical effect of euphoria, but all I could taste was this terrible drip in the back of my throat reminiscent of gasoline.

I didn’t understand what all the hype was about but somehow found myself for the rest of that summer snorting it over and over again, hoping to get a different result. I like routines and rituals, and that was what I liked most about it. But, it all came crashing down one night as I was lying in bed attempting to go to sleep- my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest, pounding, racing, unable to slow down. That scared me enough never to touch that stuff again, and thankfully, I never did.

Anyway, we spoke about how hard it was to meet new friends in middle age and how it’s hard enough to see the ones you already have. He still lives in the city he grew up in, and that’s what seems to happen if you do. You keep the same friends throughout your life. My friends who still live in LA are all still friends with each other, and when I go back to visit, it feels as if we are still in high school somehow. There is something beautiful about staying in the place you grew up in and growing old with people you were once young with. Don’t get me wrong, it’s just to say that is not how my life is rolling out. Or, more to the point, how I want it to be.

When my kids were little, it was easier to meet other women in the same overwhelmed, sleep-deprived boat I found myself juggling. We bonded over motherhood stuff, and it is questionable if we would have become friends if the cards were different.

When I was in my early 30s and weeks away from marrying my first husband, I went to see a psychic. He told me I felt like an orphan, always searching for a home, a community. No one had ever said what I felt inside so clearly before. It was true; I had never felt like I really belonged anywhere in particular. Even when I was growing up, I was disconnected from it and constantly in a fight with my hometown. He also told me I was a writer and that I would become a famous actress at the age of, wait for it, 70 (!)

Anyway, now, living in the middle of this New England forest, away from the hustle and bustle of city life, I feel connected. It’s almost impossible not to be, especially when you live off the grid and are desperately aware of how much power is being used in order to do basic domestic responsibilities like laundry and cooking (but not at the same time!)

Or, perhaps, it’s because I am married to a man who demands me to be self-reliant. Like, when we are walking in the woods, and we come across a particularly icy rock, he walks over it and keeps going without giving me a helping hand. I always laugh it off and say witty remarks like, “I don’t need your help anyway.” But the last time he did that, I realized this must be one of the reasons why I married him. He is my greatest teacher; he pushes my limits and has put me in situations that test my strength, my fears, and my comforts throughout our almost 15 years of marriage. He doesn’t let me rest on my laurels. He doesn’t allow me to give up, and, most importantly, he gives me space to realize my worth, my weaknesses, and the patterns that were conditioned in me from when I was young. You know, like all of us who were raised in cities and are conditioned to depend on calling upon others when things are broken instead of figuring it out ourselves (plumbers!)

Needless to say, my life has taken me to settle in an unexpected place I never dreamed I would blossom in. Friendships are like that as well. Sure, it’s hard to meet new people in middle age. It’s even harder when you don’t belong to any particular group or religion, play sports, or have a steady job. But, one thing growing older has taught me, we older dames might be set in our ways, but we have no more tolerance for all the bullshit. And, when we cross paths with other wrinkled, like-minded middle-aged broads, we come together like a pack of wolves, howling in the night, eternally bonded by our call, no matter how far away we may be.

Photographer David Goddard.