I’m in Nashville for the weekend, staying with my friends Rick and Nancy while I attend the Southern Book Festival. Our friend, Sarah, flew down from New York. ��The evening I arrived, the weather was balmy. ��Well into the night hours, the air felt soft and thick and smelled of summer’s last blooming. Yesterday morning, though, a storm rolled in. ��Inside Rick and Nancy’s periwinkle cottage, I lay in my bed feeling flush with joy as I listened to the thunder and the tap��of rain against the windows, knowing that for the next three days I’d be in the company of good friends.����We’d cook together, talk about books and listen to music. There’d be lots of wine and lots of laughter.

I’ve been thinking about friendship a lot lately. ��I’m not talking about the niceties exchanged between warm acquaintances. I’m talking about what it means to be��truly, deeply connected. The other day I was in my local Walgreens buying vitamins and trash bags when I heard someone call my name. ��It was my friend Alison, whom I adore, standing in line at the pharmacy pick-up window. We hadn’t seen each other all summer, but I’d just been thinking about her earlier that day, and to see the way we hugged and kissed and held each other’s faces, you’d think��we’d been lost to each other for decades. I stood with her while she waited in line, and within a few short seconds we were talking about the things that really mattered–the struggles we’d recently overcome (or not), the small victories we’d managed to achieve, the lessons we’d learned about ourselves and the people we loved, what we hoped��autumn��would bring. When we said our goodbyes in the parking lot with promises to get together for dinner in November, it was with another round of kisses and bear hugs; hugs so tight that the smell of Alison’s perfume lingered in my clothes.

To know me is to know that I lead with my heart. For better or worse, I hold myself wide open. I can’t help it–that’s just the way I’m wired. And what I love about Alison, what I love about Rick, Nancy and Sarah and the small handful of other dear friends is that their hearts are wide open too. It doesn’t matter that we’re not always in regular touch, although we often are, or that we’re scattered across the country. ��The connection is deep and true. What��I’m coming to understand, though, is that being open-hearted is a rare thing and not everyone wants to do it. Not everyone is eager to connect deeply. Not everyone is willing to take a chance.

Back in August, I had a lovely and startling conversation with my sister’s boyfriend, M. ��We were on vacation on Martha’s Vineyard, and M joined us for a few days. Late one night, M was sitting alone in the kitchen when I came trudging up the stairs. ��As I reached the top, I let out a heavy sigh–one filled with all the weariness and sadness I must have been feeling–before I noticed M sitting there. ��He called me over and invited me to pull up a chair. ��I won’t recount our conversation here, but I can tell you that within minutes we’d cut through all the pleasantries and the bullshit. ��M confessed that part of the reason he’d come was because he liked me from the moment we met at my dad’s memorial. He sensed that I��had a good heart, but now he wanted to get to know me. “Me?” I said. “Really?” M leaned forward and looked right into my face. “Really,” he said. Then he said something that made me know��he was sincere; uttered words��I understood completely. ��“I lead with my heart,” M said. ��“That’s the way I am.” And then M said something I’ve thought about often ever since. ��“When I meet��a person who gives me a certain feeling, I give them my whole heart. But I know that’s too much for some people. Some people don’t want that, and that’s cool. I back off. I’m not selling.”

Some people don’t want that, and that’s cool. ��I’m not selling . . .

I totally get that. ��Because not everyone wants to be that vulnerable. Because leading with ��your heart can be scary. ��Because being open-hearted and deeply connected is a risky business.

Tonite, Rick, Nancy, Sarah and I cooked dinner together–something we always do. ��Of course we talked about books and writing,��which festival panels and readings we enjoyed the most. We talked about our careers. Eventually conversation turned to the question of love and friendship. How had��we managed to stay friends all these years when so many other friendships–close friendships–had faded?��Each of us, it turns out, has made connections we thought would last forever, only to discover that the person on the other end couldn’t or worse,��wouldn’t��stay open-hearted.��“I guess people just have different operating systems,” Nancy said. ��I’d never heard it put that way but I thought it was an apt description. “That’s why you’ve got to go where the love is,” Rick said, which is another way of saying he’s not selling; it’s pointless to try to convince someone that it’s worth taking the chance. People are either willing to meet you or they’re not.

I have a day and a half before I head back to San Francisco. Thirty-six more hours of hugs and kisses, good food, honest talk and laughter. Once I’m gone, it might be months before I see these people again. ��I’m not worried. The connection will remain in tact. Because we all run on the��same operating system: Our��hearts are��wide open. We’re all willing to take the chance.