by David D. Horowitz.
Companions aren’t merely friends. They’re trusted friends on whom we feel warmly reliant. And companions needn’t be living or human.
I’ve loved pairs of tennis shoes worn to frayed laces, strips of cloth, and hole-dotted rubber soles. I’ve felt passionate loyalty to a short-sleeved casual shirt I bought forty years ago. Yes, it’s old, but I went out with a love interest in that shirt, and I studied until two a.m. in that shirt, and it still looks good with khaki pants, and… I can’t just give it away. For me, it’s a timeless talisman.
And I’ve loved certain literary characters, books of philosophy and art, and lines of poetry: “the sun’s / Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely / Rain-ceased midsummer evening.” Philip Larkin’s observation lives for me a few evenings every July and August. And literary characters! I’ve known Iago—indeed, more than one. I’ve felt like Hamlet. I’ve smiled to myself when recalling the tone of Sherlock Holmes’ and Doctor Watson’s dialogue. And philosophy: I read a page or two of Confucius’ Analects every Sunday. And I feel I am in Ancient Rome whenever I peruse the pages of Roman Portraits, a compelling collection of photographs of Ancient Roman portrait statues. So, I can rely on such cultural touchstones to enrich me with wisdom, remind me of pleasure, and replenish hope. They’re old friends, not merely disposable objects.
And household objects, like my red velveteen pillow: sure, it’s old and faded, but I’ve rested my annoyed head on it a thousand times! No, I’m not giving it away!
And neighborhood green spaces, like the campus lawns at the University Washington in Seattle: I’ve sunbathed and relaxed on them thousands of times. And my old University District studio apartment: half of my life has been spent here. And this park featuring stunning dusk views, that nineteenth-century wooden home, this classic bookstore, that venerable art gallery… All of them are companions, trusted friends in sensory impression, spiritual kinship, and fond memory.
Now, to be sure, I discard some worn-out stuff, and not all memories are pleasant or precise. And, of course, my spiritual connection to many things and places will likely be more intense than for other people. To expect others to equally share my connection to my boyhood Little League jerseys or a local baseball diamond would be narcissistic. But, conversely, not to venerate any such connections would be to die a little bit, day by day. So, if you should see me laughing or smiling to myself, please know my happiness emerges from connection to other people—and to old pillows, lines of verse, pocket parks, seasonal rhythms and rituals, and little stones or scribblings that I value as amulets. And I trust you have yours. Indeed, ritual and memory help link the particular to the universal.