A somewhat fascinating scene at the local coffee shop tonight. Over in the corner, a gaggle of women were having what seemed to be some manner of support meeting. I took my latte and sat closer to listen in, and be damned if I didn’t wind up in the middle of it.
The entire group seemed to have chosen one of their members to support on this night. Perhaps that is common, hard to say. They all seemed very sincere and protective, so I assumed they must take turns at it. I cannot imagine it working any other way.
The focal point of all this support on this night was a woman about my age, who sat at the head of the circle and looked about to go to pieces, frankly. Swollen eyes, red-faced, and distraught.
I didn’t catch all of the conversations, but it was interesting what I did catch. I assumed she was coming out of an affair. Snippets of their conversation revealed he was married. Eh. Of course. What do women think sometimes?
What was interesting to me was how the other women were not at all faulting her for it. I was really quite tempted to interrupt, but managed to refrain and instead, listened as they consoled her. Or tried.
“Honey, you had to know it would be like this,” said the woman to her right. She had the look of a librarian, you know the type, earthy but not repressed. She didn’t as much talk as she narrated. The crying woman nodded but did not speak.
From across the way, a rather punk looking woman with a decidedly harsh look to her face quipped, “Yeah, really, I mean, soon as he got back in the saddle, what use would he have of you?”
The others turned angry looks to her, but it didn’t phase her at all. Instead, she looked around almost disdainfully, jutted her chin out and said, “Well? Prove me wrong if you can.” The woman in the middle seemed to cave in on herself, but she didn’t speak. The punker looked at the other women smugly, “See? She knows. It isn’t like it’s a secret.”
The woman to the right of the punk woman jabbed her sharply in the ribs and there was something of a staring contest between them. Surprisingly, the punker backed down, muttering not quite under her breath, “Well shit, excuse me for thinking truth would be welcome here.”
I can’t say I blamed her for backing off. While the punk woman was aggressive, the woman who jabbed her looked downright violent. Dressed in decidedly worn clothes, looking a good bit like a street rat, I’d have crossed the road to avoid her myself. Surprisingly, after turning from the punker, she leaned over to the woman at the head of the circle and said, “You know that isn’t true. You know he cares about you.” And patted her shoulder with a gentleness that spoke of closeness.
It struck me how the entire group, no matter how they whispered or talked amongst themselves all took time to occasionally reached out to lay a hand on the weeping woman’s arm or shoulder. It seemed much of the comfort was non-verbal; just them being there, sharing the weight as they might manage.
A slim woman, dressed in caftan and wearing a Buddhist mala about her left wrist glanced over to me and smiled, then looked to the woman and said, “It isn’t as if he’s gone away, dear. Things change. You knew they would. Perhaps you should try to expect less from him, then you wouldn’t be so disappointed.”
The group as a whole nodded and gave their agreement to this statement and the woman at it’s head looked up and shrugged lightly, “I don’t think I expect so very much of him at all, really. Do you?”
All eyes swung back to the woman in the caftan, who shifted a bit to leaned forward slightly, “Perhaps you would be wiser, and happier, to expect nothing at all.”
I noted the others had fallen silent and for the most part, were agreeing with this speaker simply by virtue of not gainsaying her. It was interesting to watch the balance of power in the group move to her and how her calm and peaceful demeanor settled them all. Even the woman at the center of this little group had stopped crying and was nodding slowly as she replied, “I know you’re right. I guess I was hoping maybe it wouldn’t have to change so drastically. It’s not like I get to enjoy much of him at all… I don’t like the notion that he is going to fall into silence and distance, too.”
They all nodded and murmured soothingly. I got the distinct impression this wasn’t the first time this conversation had taken place between them. It made me curious and I leaned over to the younger girl who was rocking in the chair closest to me and put my assumptions to question, asking, “An affair?”
The girl startled and turned wide eyes to me and it was only then that I noticed the vacant look in them. She opened her mouth to say something, but the woman sitting by her touched her arm and gently turned her back to the group, then looked to me and said quietly, “She isn’t a very good conversationalist. And no, it wasn’t an affair. Rather, a close friendship.”
I noted the past tense and asked, “Was?” The woman looked at me for a moment without speaking. I could see the thoughts she would not speak moving in her eyes and, after a few moments of silence, she said simply, “It was not an affair. It is a friendship. Does that answer your question?”
I had the grace to blush at my own intrusion, “Er, I guess so. But if you don’t mind my saying so, she doesn’t look like she thinks of it that way.” The group as a whole shifted their attention to me. A rather frazzled looked woman on the other side of the circle’s head said quietly, “It doesn’t much matter what or how she thinks of it, does it? Things are as they are.”
The crying woman turned a glum face my way and said haltingly, “He is a very good friend. I’m just suffering from my own poor choices in relation to him.” She grimaced and then said, more softly, “Sometimes, the hardest part of caring for someone is remembering it’s a one way street and has little to do with reciprocation.”
The woman to her right touched her hand and said, “Not quite. True it is a thing that should not contain expectation, but that doesn’t mean hurtful behaviors should go unchallenged.” The nods and various agreements of the others gave me a context for this meeting… it seemed it wasn’t a grieving session after all, more like just what I initially thought – a support session.
I realized I was just a wee bit too engaged in it, so I said my farewells and drifted to the other side of the coffee shop. But I spent some time thinking about it, particularly about the statement that hurtful behaviors should be challenged. I don’t know, but I think there must be some aspect of expectation active that makes a behavior by another hurtful. After all, what gets hurt in anything but an expectation unmet?
All things considered, it wasn’t something I was prepared to assert to that group, seeing as they seemed to have their own dynamic in play and from what I could tell, it worked well for them. But it made me think about a recent event in my own life, and I think I’ve decided for the next while that I am going to work on getting rid of some of my own expectations. The woman in the caftan made a lot of sense to me, it’s better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to have expectations that are either never met or forever met at less than you were hoping.