“Dear Edie,

I’m not sure if you remember me, but this is Mary Puls. I used to go to water aerobics with you…” I write, filling in some details, then conclude, “Can I take you out to lunch to catch up and swap stories? Feel free to call, text, or email me!

Sincerely,

Mary Puls”

Dated October 2023.

I desperately stuff this card in an envelope feeling like maybe reconnecting with my former acquaintance might give me some grounding, peace, and purpose. I only knew Edie for a short four months, three and a half years prior.

March of 2020, when I last saw Edie, I took a photograph of her, for a college class. Little did either of us know that the whole world would change in those coming weeks and our water aerobics class would be canceled indefinitely.

Since last seeing her, I graduated college; got my first big-kid job; lost friends and made new ones; through phone calls, kept up with family spread across the country; grew a lot and lived a lot. Discontentment, however, welled up inside of me as I, yearned for something more.

That “something” however, I can’t quite put a finger on. I feel untethered and dissatisfied. Treading water — moving, but never really going anywhere. Working harder and harder to stay afloat, fearing that if I stop, I’ll sink, and everyone will see I never actually belonged in the first place.

Back in our water aerobics class, Edie wasn’t the person who stood out to me most. She didn’t demand attention, and she lived a mostly mundane life. As we did our cross-country skiing and kickboard pushes, she wasn’t the life of the pool chatter. But, she felt safe and light — a buoyancy that extended beyond the water.

As the months go by with no response to my letter, I begin to forget about it. Then, one cold January morning, I open my mailbox, flip through the junk mail, and see a hand-addressed envelope with flowing, cursive writing, addressed to me.

“My dear Mary,” it starts, followed by step-by-step instructions on how to get from my house to hers. Signed “Edie” with a smiley face.

A month later, we make lunch plans.

As I drive to Edie’s, following the directions on my phone, but with her original letter in my bag just in case I get lost, a giddy excitement bubbles up. That feeling of bouncing off the bottom of the pool, jumping higher than I’d think possible, giggling at the sheer silliness of it.

I meet Edie in the lobby, and she looks just as I remembered. And dare I say, even younger than before!

Nearly four years ago, I showed up to a water aerobics class. In my one-piece swimsuit and blue swim towel in hand, the lifeguard directed me to the two lanes that remained open for lap swim. “I’m actually here for the water aerobic class,” I hesitantly stated while slowly joining the septua and octogenarians in the water, trying to keep a low profile, conscious of my new presence in their space. I feel this again walking into Edie’s senior living community.

Edie and I walk through the restaurant connected to the lobby. She sits against the wall so she can see the whole dining hall as we eat. In the few, slow steps to reach our table, Edie stops to warmly greet several faces that light up as soon as they see her.

Edie’s calm, reflective energy and delight is radiant. She’s a glacial lake and I’m a riptide.

The staff have genuine smiles plastered across their faces. I take note of the calm and unhurried relief that engulfs me. Stepping into Edie’s world, I feel small. The smallness of looking over an ocean. Connected and not alone in this vast world. The humbling feeling that shifts my perspective from my current inward stresses and struggles towards a much bigger story.

During the course of our meal, we share stories. Several residents come over to say hi, each one saying, “Edie, this must be your granddaughter!” A sense of pride and purpose washes over me as I beam, “No, we’re just friends!”. Edie, with the excitement of a child, rhetorically asks, “Can you guess how we met?”, then as if telling an unbelievable secret, “water aerobics class!”

In the dining hall, Edie’s eyes glance past my shoulder to catch the eyes of a friend behind me. Edie turns to me to recount a story about her friend teaching kindergarten. Finishing her story, Edie shook her head and closed her eyes in pure amazement at the cleverness and compassion her friend had, to teach empathy and respect to her tiny students.

Edie has a way of honoring and validating each person’s unique experiences and seeing something a little deeper than the surface. Maybe it’s the Quaker values she was raised to believe — that every human is created to reflect the image of God. It seems that every person we meet, Edie had a delightful antidote about. Fletch, the creator of the history club; Nancy, the strategic Rummikub player; Anderson, the smartest man she’s ever met; and Mary, the artist.

“This is Mary Puls. She’s an artist.” Edie says as she introduces me to each new person.

My natural instinct in hearing this is wanting to recoil. To humbly laugh it off and say “ha, I’m hardly an artist”. My jaw tightens and chest feels heavy with the weight of being “found out” — that I’m not as capable, talented, or deserving as she thinks. I flashback to the times my well-meaning friends and family dismissed and overlooked my art, but Edie states this introduction so matter of fact, as if to say something so clearly and irrefutable as, “today is Saturday”. As if to say something innately true about me, that I struggle to see myself.

Edie and I finish lunch with a dessert because of course, a meal is never complete until you have something sweet to follow.

After lunch, Edie shows me her room. She tells me stories about moving here and selling her former home of 40 years. About the pieces of furniture that mean the most to her — a handmade chest, a painting of her last home, a beautiful desk where she does her writing, a framed photograph of her late husband.

Edie has several potted plants basking in the sun in her living room, and I feel like one of them — basking in her presence and in her light.

She tells me about one plant in particular. It has dark, almost black leaves, and has been passed down in her family for the past three generations. It’s Edie’s favorite. As I get ready to leave, Edie wets some paper towels and grabs a plastic baggie and a rubber band. She retrieves a propagation of this plant from the window seal, wraps it up, and gifts it to me. Her real gift however, is so much more: the gift of seeing someone else. And that’s why I’m here. I came to see her, but maybe I really came to be seen by her.