Friends have been foremost in my mind this month, partly because of all the  wonderful cards, emails and calls that came my way on my birthday. But this month has also been a trying time for many friends who've been dealing with illness and loss, and I hold them in my heart.

With all of that in mind, I'm dedicating this month's Last Wednesday Wisdom to friendship, with a collection of quotes on the subject. Incidentally, tracking the quotes down turned out to be a bigger challenge than I expected. While a Google search turns up loads of friendship quotes, confirming their sources isn't so easy. For instance, I discovered that one popular quote attributed to Albert Camus may have originated in the 1970s as an Iowa high school class motto. Other quotes are correctly attributed, but taken out of context.

I did uncover a valuable resource in the course of researching quotes, though. On his blog, The Quote Investigator, author Garson O'Toole investigates the origins of popular quotations. While he hasn't investigated all the quotes I'm citing here, he did clear up confusion about several. So cheers to Garson O'Toole—and to friends!

I have no duty to be anyone's Friend and no man in the world has a duty to be mine. No claims, no shadow of necessity. Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself . . . It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.
​-- C.S. Lewis

“Why did you do all this for me?” he asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.”
“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.”
-- E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

But please remember . . . that no person is your friend (or kin) who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow and be perceived as fully blossomed as you were intended.
-- Alice Walker, In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens: Womanist Prose

Friendship is the bestiest thing that comes to life.
​-- Marilyn Monroe

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​Put on your party hats—we're celebrating a couple of birthdays. First of all, HeartWood turned two years old on February 10. Can you believe it?

 
And yesterday, I turned . . . somewhat older than two.

​As my birthday approached, I reflected on previous birthdays and the many days between all those birthdays. That train of thought gave me an idea for this post: write about one important lesson learned from each decade of my life.
 

​Easy enough. Or so I thought until I sat down and tried to choose one bit of knowledge or wisdom from each decade. Not so easy. For instance, how do you select just one essential thing that you learned between the ages of 10 and 20? There were so many—from the practical (driving) to the spiritual (oh, those many, many Bible verses in Baptist Sunday school), with all sorts of others in between, some learned in classrooms, others by experience.
 
So while it may not be possible to pick the essential lesson from each decade, I've tried to select one enduring lesson from each of those time spans.
 
Here's what I came up with:

​Schoolmates, Brownie troop, Sunday school classmates, cousins—kids my age were everywhere in those early Baby Boomer years. As an almost-only child whose sole sibling was already a teenager when I was born, I enjoyed solitude but also treasured companionship. Lucky for me, five girls just my age all lived within a block of my house. That lively gang gave me my first taste of sisterhood.  

​It was during those years that I first opened myself up to kids who were different in some way from my other friends and me. The sweet-faced second-grader who never spoke; the brilliant boy whose cerebral palsy twisted his body and slurred his speech; the new-in-town girl who stood nearly a foot taller than the rest of us; the kid in husky jeans whose first name sounded unfortunately similar to Lard. For some reason, I was drawn to these kids. Maybe it was only curiosity at first, but over time I found admirable qualities in each of them (especially the time that super-tall girl dangled off a bridge by her ankles to rescue my little dog, who'd slipped through the creek's icy surface). Those early encounters set the stage for some of the richest friendships of my life.

​Oh, so many changes. The physical, of course. And as I progressed through the grades and moved up to bigger schools, an ever-changing cast of characters enlivening my days. 

​At least home and neighborhood stayed the same, but only through the first half of the decade. That all changed the year I turned 16, when my parents and I moved to American Samoa. I could write a book about that. Oh, that's right, I did. Maybe someday you can read it. For now, I'll just say that moving from Oklahoma to an island in the South Pacific where people summoned turtles and sharks with song, cured disease by appeasing spirits, and feasted on the reproductive organs of sea worms was mind- and world-expanding. Thanks to the warmth of the Samoan people, the beauty of the landscape, and the élan of the other teenagers on the island, I flourished in that setting instead of moping about what I'd left behind.

​These were years of hitting the books—college first, then graduate school. All those courses in science and math were exhilarating, but intense. For relief, I got physical. Really physical! I joined the campus dance company and spent 15 to 20 hours a week in dance classes and rehearsals (enough to qualify for a phys-ed minor, which struck this non-athlete as amusing). I hiked in the woods, rode my bike to the beach, walked or biked to campus and into town for errands, swam laps in the community pool, and took up yoga and strength training. By the time I graduated, my health habits were as engrained as my study habits, and both have stuck with me. (But please don't ask me to do a pirouette.)

​​Yet some internal stirring urged me to go for it. I did, and I've never regretted it. That bold move led to a rewarding career in journalism, a new trove of treasured friendships and world-expanding experiences, and eventually, the satisfying life I'm living today.

​As my fortieth birthday approached, everything once again seemed on track and moving in the right direction. A few months later, a massive heart attack claimed my husband Brian. A year after that, cancer crept up on me for the third time, sending me into rounds of aggressive treatments that nearly killed me.

​I emerged from all those traumas physically and emotionally scarred and sure that life would never be the same. I was right about that. Life would never be the same. But that didn't mean it couldn't be good in other ways.  

​At first, I kept my expectations low. "Good" might mean nothing more than a bouquet of fresh flowers on my coffee table or a walk around the block with a friend. As I opened myself up to these small pleasures, though, I began to see more possibilities and claim bigger chunks of happiness. I met and married Ray, learned to ride a motorcycle, took some unforgettable trips, did volunteer work, and found a new job flexible enough to mesh with the freelance career I also launched during this decade. My forties turned out to be some of my happiest years.

​Hmmmm. I'm starting to see a pattern here. Once more, I was all comfy with my life, enjoying my work and taking pleasure in play. We finished remodeling our house, my flower gardens were thriving, my writing was going well, everything was paid for, and there was little else I needed or wanted. I envisioned coasting through the rest of life just so.

​Oh, but did I mention I have a restless husband? About halfway through this decade, he got the itch to move. At first, I resisted. I was happy where we were, the house was finally just the way we wanted it, life was good and reasonably easy. Why mess with that? But then I remembered all the other times that venturing into the unknown had paid big dividends, and I got on board.

​Thank goodness I did, because we ended up here in this beautiful, creative, open-hearted Newaygo County community.

​I'm cheating a little here, as I'm a year short of the end of this decade. But I intend to keep making "It's never too late" my mantra through the rest of Decade 7 and beyond. Whether I'm exploring publishing options for my memoir, traveling back to Samoa, challenging myself in yoga, tackling new writing projects, or venturing into realms I've yet to imagine, I hope to keep going and growing for years to come.

When you look back at your life, what lessons stand out?

​​​Happy Valentine's Day! I don't know if it's the memory of grade-school valentine exchanges or the connection with chocolate, but this has always been one of my favorite holidays.

​This year I'm celebrating by kicking off a new, occasional (meaning whenever I feel like it) feature on creative couples. For the first installment, I'm profiling two all-around wonderful folks, George and Mallory Waldman. I first met the couple when George and I worked together at the Detroit Free Press—he as a photographer and I as a reporter. I always admired his honest, direct, and often surprising images.

​Back then, Mallory was tirelessly working for a nonprofit organization that provided services for the elderly and people with HIV/AIDS, which didn't leave her much time or energy for other creative work. Now that she and George have retired and moved to Maine, she has flourished as a fiber artist.

​Here's how Mallory describes her creations: "I play with color in fabrics which I've cut into one-inch-wide strips and woven together. It's almost like painting in a way, because the colors change when woven next to one another. It's fascinating, huge fun, and quite exciting."

​George claims he doesn't do much photography any more. Mallory begs to differ. While he may not be practicing photojournalism, "I see such creativity in his photographs of the area around us," she says. "He can suddenly make you see what you really didn't do more than glance at before. He sharpens your sight."

​In addition, George is carving wood and learning to draw and play piano, "working in different dimensions, rather than the two," he says. "It's all a challenge. Piano is really the tough one." 

​It surprised me when George added, "I'm beginning to think of myself as a creative person." Funny, I always thought he was.

​He went on to explain that while he hasn't considered himself creative in an artistic sense, he's a creative problem solver. "I am, in my work, trying to find the essence of a situation and a person untainted by my own subjective impulses, and following that through to a final, beautiful and honest image that is useful and used and helpful in people understanding and appreciating each other."

​I wondered if the couple's creative natures played any part in their attraction to each other when they met on a blind date 52 years ago. 

​"We were so young and didn't know each other well (and I didn't know myself), so the creative part of George was not what drew me to him," says Mallory. "I did think he was one of the nicest and most interesting guys I'd ever met." (She still thinks so, by the way.)

​George agrees that he was "young and unformed" back then, and says this about Mallory: "At 22, she didn't seem to play games, which might suggest she wasn't very creative, but it made her very attractive to me. She was sincere, the kind of person who would do what she promised to do."

​​Perhaps it was that sincerity and mutual respect that helped them develop a partnership in which they could hone their own talents while encouraging each other's. That's a key to creative coupledom, say Katie and Gay Hendricks, husband-and-wife coauthors of Conscious Loving Ever After. "When people get in deeper communication with their own individual creative essence, their relationships blossom as a direct result," they write.

​Or as George puts it, "Be true to oneself, or why would anyone else be interested in you?"

​​For George and Mallory, support goes beyond encouragement; they also help each other find space and time for creative pursuits. George might move a new loom into Mallory's studio, then do the laundry and fix dinner while she sets it up. Mallory will handle other logistics to give George a chance to "dream or wander or putz around with something."

​They share their skills, too. George set up a Facebook page for technophobe Mallory, where she can display photos of her creations (photos taken by George, naturally).   

​​"I see the play of light in her work, the texture, shapes and colors more deeply than others might," says George. "Photographic elements." 

​Once, another artist whose work George had photographed observed that the result was "about the photographs more than the art." With his photos of Mallory's weavings, he aims for images that capture both: the artful weaving itself, but also photographic elements such as the play of light on the warp of the loom.

That mix of literal representation and artistic expression "can be a good thing," George maintains. "A kind of collaboration. Right?"

​Helpful as it as to have a supportive partner when things are going smoothly, it's even more appreciated during creative slumps and rough patches, the Waldmans have found. 

​"During a labor dispute with the Detroit newspapers, I had to struggle to make a living in depressing and often unfulfilling, problem-solving creative ways," George recalls. "Mallory was rock solid in support and understanding, never wavering a moment while she had her own problems to solve in funding and administering a program meeting the needs of HIV positive/AIDS people. Just earning a living is a creative challenge for most of us."

​​Giving George extra encouragement at that stressful time seemed like a no-brainer to Mallory. "One wants one's lover to be happy, fulfilled and eager to go on," she says. 

​Conscious Loving authors the Hendrickses see that sort of succor as essential in a creative partnership. In addition to asking oneself "What is my unique genius?", you can ask the same of your mate, Katie noted in an interview in the August 2017 issue of Mindful magazine. " 'What do you want to do in the world, and how can I support you and how can you support me?' That support is an expression of the genius of your relationship."

​Recently, Mallory posed that very question to her spouse. "I asked George what would he really want to do if there were no constraints at all. Just dream and then tell me, and let's make it happen." 

​Though they don't collaborate on artistic work, George and Mallory did co-produce two exceptional creations: son Aaron and daughter Terrill. Not surprisingly, the parents applied their usual imagination and energy to nurturing their children's curiosity and creativity.

​"We always had an art drawer for the kids, and George took them on an assignment once in a while so they could see him work," Mallory says. "We also supported their artistic impulses with classes and our general attitude that art was great."

​Books were plentiful in the Waldman household, and George and Mallory encouraged creative thinking with daily questions: "What do you think of this? Do you like mustard on your eggs? What's the worst thing that could happen here?" (Mixed in with the occasional "Could you mow the damn lawn?")

​Aaron and Terrill grew up to lead their own creative lives. Terrill and husband Charlie Jenkins, also a glassblower, create colorful and imaginative pieces in their studio, Tandem Glass. Aaron is "a very creative accountant in a good way and intent on the craft of it," says George.

​Now grandparents, George and Mallory spend two days a week with their grandchildren and enjoy seeing their talents bloom. 

​"We're hoping to foster in them a freedom of thinking, problem-solving ability, and acceptance and understanding of life and its challenges," says George.

​Come to think of it, those are exactly the qualities George and Mallory continue to cultivate in themselves in this phase of their creative couplehood.

​"Life has several beginnings," says Mallory. "At 74, we feel this stage is another new beginning."

​We all start the new year with such great enthusiasm for our projects. Then, a month or so in, we sometimes lose our momentum. Ideas dry up, energy sags. That's when an injection of inspiration can be just the thing. 

​Welcome back, Lene!

​I hope you found something in here that might help you boost your creativity, and if you did, I’d love to hear from you! Maybe you have a tip that you’d like to add to the list, or maybe you’d like to share an experience when one of these “boosters” worked for you. Feel free to comment below!
​-- Lene