Reverence and Raunch
On friendships that last
I’d be lost without my friends. I know I’m not alone in this sentiment, one that’s backed up by plenty of research and 10,000 memes. But recently I realized that my deepest friendships - the ones that have buoyed me through the decades - share an odd blueprint, one that traces back to language learning and my slightly off the wall relatives.
When people ask why I speak Swedish, I explain that I spent summers there with my mother’s family, and was surrounded by her Swedish singing group, and book club, and was generally immersed in the culture.
But that is not the true story.
The real reason I learned Swedish was because of the titillating stories my family told. When the material got too illicit, the adults switched over from English to Swedish, thinking it safely hidden from children’s ears. Until, one day, my uncle Claes-Göran turned to me and asked, “You know what we’re saying, don’t you, Johanna?”
I shook my head solemnly, No. Only realizing, a beat too late, he had asked the question in Swedish. Once the gig was up, I let loose with my imperfect grammar and stumbling sentences. Those bawdy, illicit stories and dirty drinking songs drew me in, and I relished being in on the joke (language teachers take note: There’s no motivation for learning quite like well this is definitely off limits).
But my family isn’t only crude. These are the same people that weep at every goodbye. They gush in reverie at the setting sun and loudly mmm and aahh over an excellent marmalade sandwich. My uncles are as likely to revel in the cathedral of the forest as break into a wildly inappropriate drinking song.
They are equal parts reverence and raunch.
Over the years I’ve discovered that my longest, truest friendships share this wild combination.
On the one hand, we are willing to linger in the deep questions, to feel the great ache of living with an open heart. We hold our tender places up to the firelight of our shared attention without rushing resolution, making space for the numinous and the unexplained.
And also. We crack booty jokes, roll on the floor ugly laughing, drop all propriety and shame. We might break into a spontaneous duet of the Isley Brother’s 2003 “Busted” or joke about farts like a bunch of middle schoolers.
We need the full range. Reverence on its own becomes airless, heavy with seriousness. Raunchiness alone loses the punch and drags.
Earlier this summer I had a Zoom call with my three best friends from eighth grade. Three decades on, there it still was: fierce convictions, maximal cussing, deep tenderness. And each of us very ready to laugh through it all.
When we give ourselves permission to wander through the whole range, friendships take root and bloom. So do we.
Do you have your own special formula for friendships that sustain you? Drop a comment below.
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