I have been thinking about friendship lately. My thoughts have been prompted by the death of a friend of almost thirty years. Our friendship was complicated, as I suspect all friendships are.

 She started out as my teacher. We met at a writer’s conference. Harriet May Savitz was giving the workshop on writing for children. I was a conferee, a new writer hungry for words of wisdom from an experienced author. Harriet walked into the room in a brilliant red suit, which immediately captured my attention. Her flowing white hair and soft manner intrigued me. She spoke less about the mechanics of writing than about the soul of the writer. I was in love. Here was someone who knew, really knew, what was in my heart. When she mentioned that she had a writing support group, I brazenly asked if I could join. She looked intensely into my eyes for what seemed a lifetime and said, “I think you’re serious. We can try it.” For several years I happily took the hour drive from my house to hers just to be in her presence. She helped me refine my work so that I was able to become professional.

When I started having articles published, she became my mentor. Harriet encouraged me to write, write, write. It was not a hollow suggestion; she was writing all the time and knew that is what would keep me on track.

We morphed into colleagues when my first children’s book was published. We shared our concerns about writing and publishing and offered each other friendly but pointed revisions. Harriet was a courageous, prolific, enthusiastic writer. She felt it was an honor to be called “author” and she carried the title with dignity.  I was in her dedications and she in mine.

Somewhere along the way we became dear friends. Our professional connection was infused with a personal one, the two weaving in and out of each other so perfectly that I am unable to say when it happened. Our phone calls included talk about writing and adventures, doubts and confidences, children and later grandchildren, too. E-mails became continued conversations. When Harriet started writing essays, she asked my advice and our roles reversed; I was now her mentor, reassuring her of the importance of her work and urging her to follow her new writing path. She wrote poignant essays that inspired and affected people all over the globe. She also had a vibrant sense of humor. When I would visit, we did crazy things, acting like teenagers on the boardwalk near her home. We created outrageous projects and laughed until our stomachs hurt. I taught Harriet Qi Gong exercises, she crocheted blankets for me and my husband in her free-form intuitive sense of color and design.

It seemed like we had explored as much of each other as was possible but there was even more.  We began to write together. Out of our conversations came ideas for stories that we wanted to share with children. We wrote over the phone, bouncing ideas back and forth, excited by our combined skills with words that brought our stories to life. Two of them, Is a Worry Worrying You? (Tanglewood Press) and The Story Blanket (Andersen Press/Random House UK and Peachtree Press) have been published and a third story is due in an anthology promoting literacy. We both were delighted by the joint names on the covers.

When Harriet became ill, she kept putting off our visits. She gave instructions that there were to be no visitors in the hospital. I went anyway. How could I not? How could I not recognize the years of connection we had? We had been together for family births and deaths, for achievements and disappointments, for joys and distresses. Our friendship was too deep, too dear, to slip away unrecognized at the end.

Harriet once said that she hoped one day she would be able to give me as much as I had given her. I assured her she already had, and more.

As I said, I have been having thoughts about friendship. It is complicated. Elusive. Blessed.