NPI Reflects Spring 2021

Eulogy for the Tiny Relationship

By Cynthia Ezell, LMFT, MFA Life was rich with tiny relationships before the pandemic. They were like appetizers at a cocktail party, little bite-sized moments of connection that hinted at possibilities and gave us warm feelings, fleeting but restorative as we slogged through the mundanities of a normal day. They were born of encounters with random strangers who inhabit our orbit but don't take up permanent residence in the landscape of our psyches. Like the teenage boy who sacks groceries at the Kroger in my small town. Because the store makes him wear a name badge, I can make a bid for conversation by saying, "Hi, Drew, how's your day going?", and there isn't much he can do to ignore me. Often the Drews of my world appreciate being seen as real people and not just flesh-covered robots, so they respond and lob a question back at me. "I'm okay. How 'bout you?" Bam. A tiny relationship has just occurred. These days Drew and I are both wearing masks and trying not to get too close to each other. He can't even see me smiling at him.

Other tiny relationships happen less intentionally, like my maybe not so tiny relationship with Nancy, the woman who washes my hair when I go to the salon for a highlight. I look forward to talking to Nancy as much as I look forward to being blonde again for a few months.. She is the only other person in the world who washes my hair. I miss her.

Tiny relationships sometimes surprise us. Sometimes we don't really welcome them but get roped in by circumstance. Sometimes they change our lives.

I was in Louisville, KY on a blustery Spring morning in 2019, the Before Times. As I approached the corner of Broadway and Third, a woman with kinky grey hair and baggy blue pants stood beside a grocery cart strewn with plastic bags, water bottles, and a worn woolen blanket. She was agitated and kept walking toward the crosswalk, then veering back under the awning that ran along the ground floor of the Brown Hotel. I was a student at Spalding University, and like Drew, my grocery store buddy, had on a name badge as I walked to class. The woman rushed over to me and said, "Cynthia, I need you to help me!"

"Okay…..", I replied. “What do you need?"

"I need you to help me cross the street. I'm afraid of the wind."

She grabbed my arm and headed for the curb as the pedestrian crossing sign turned green. We had twenty seconds to make it across Broadway before the cars on Third would be unleashed.

"I'm afraid of the wind," she said again as her eyes searched the sky.

Her obvious distress softened my reserve.

"It will be okay. What's your name?", I asked as we merged into the flow of strangers, all intent on getting across before the seconds ticked off.

"Elaine," she replied, her eyes darting between the sky and the safety of the curb across the street.

Elaine's attention was on the Out There, on the untamable, uncontrollable wind. Elaine had not approached me for conversation. She didn’t need directions. She wasn’t asking for money. She just needed someone to hold on to.

I was an anchor keeping her tethered to the ground. I was her kite string.

"Well, Elaine, you are doing great. The wind is strong today, but we are almost across."

Elaine was not comforted. A huge gust swept down and blew her hair back off her face as if an electric current had passed through her body. Her grip on my arm tightened as if she could pull us both through the barrier of her fear. We reached the curb just as the crimson hand signaling STOP began flashing.

"We made it Elaine!” In those few seconds, Elaine’s challenge had become mine. WE had made it across. I wanted to ditch my classes, walk with her to the bagel shop around the corner, and buy us both breakfast. Our circumstances were vastly different, but we were close to the same age. Her psychological vulnerabilities aside, she carried herself with a resilience that drew me in. I wanted to hear her story, discover how she navigated homelessness and aging and the damn, relentless, wind, but Elaine was focused on getting to her destination.

(Continued on page 5) 4