My sister Andrea pleaded. She pleaded a month ago in a post on my Facebook wall (which otherwise is a minimalist space–spare, sparse, and neglected by its owner) for me to write more blogs. Which plea smote my heart and tickled my vanity and led me, eventually—in spurts and lapses— to this very moment, in which my fingers find their cautious way once more across my laptop keyboard. Writing who knows what; after the longest quiet interval yet, I battle not just writer’s block, but trepidation. Which trepidation means (some friends complain that my word choice is foreign to them) that there is at least some fear—let’s call it agitation— about writing (I know, it’s lame); it is possible, even, that at some point trembling could occur (that would be from the Latin “trepidare”: to “be agitated, tremble”).
Sigh.
Sisters. A couple of days ago my sister Mara Lee had a birthday. I forgot it was her birthday, and called her for other reasons. We talked for awhile on the phone; I could tell she was a little tired, a little sad, a little disappointed with some of her life’s details, and trying to be strong. Which moved me. We said goodbye without my saying “Happy Birthday”. Our families, Mara Lee’s and mine, shared a cottage at the Oregon coast for almost a week at the beginning of April. It was cold and rainy; at one point we suffered through a hailstorm on a the beach, but still, there was an hour and a half that she and I sat close in a window seat warmed by a rare shaft of sunlight, her ipad balanced between us, and watched a sweet little romance together. I love that memory. A few weeks ago my sister Leah visited me. We shopped and talked about important things; her perspective changed mine. One morning we ran about six miles together, crisscrossing my little town and considering the old brick houses I love. And talked some more. I miss all my sisters, and am grateful for the too-rare moments that we connect. Somewhere in there (my timeline has become fuzzy), I sat in Andrea’s starving student apartment and listened, touched, as she poured out her hopes and fears about her last semester. Two babies at home, husband sick, and she’s finishing her bachelor’s degree. I am impressed.
I have mentioned before that I am one of many sisters. How many? Well. That depends on what we mean by sister. In the widest sense of the word, my sisters are beyond number, a fact which comforts me. But number of literal sisters… this is data that at forty one years I have not memorized; when I’m asked how many sisters are mine, I have to say all their names out loud and hold up a finger for each one before I can give an accurate answer. One, Leah. Two, Mara Lee. Three, Julia. Four, Andrea. Five, Nola. Wow! That’s five sisters! That’s right; I have five sisters. You cannot blame me for not remembering exactly how many off the top of my head at the drop of a hat (which is hazardous to your health, by the way, the dropping of your hat and expecting greatness from the top of your suddenly exposed head). You cannot blame me because A) I am right brained, and number retention is sort of a left brain thing. I am willing to negotiate with left brained people and even think now and then left brained thoughts, but this accumulation of sisters feels more like some warm, bright, good thing I should nestle safely in my right brain, and let my left brain manage with cooler efficiency my social security number, the time of Ezra’s next orthodontist appointment, and who the current president is. And B) My sisters accumulated very gradually, which meant that if I happened to retain for any length of time the number of sisters that I had, I would eventually with the acquisition of a new sister have to remember a revised number of sisters. Which relates once more to my left brain (is this all about my being right brained then? why did I draw a list?). And also which (pardon me) still to this day doesn’t feel safe, this relinquishing precious things to the cool calibrations of my left brain.
Writing about it reminds me of a sad, sad song my Grandma Wilson used to sing to my sisters and I when we were little girls. Not sure why she sang songs that made us cry; maybe it was cathartic for her, our sobs accompaniment as she crooned with misty eyes and a catch in her throat. “Oh do you remember a long time ago/ about two little babes, their names I don’t know/ who strolled far away on a bright summer’s day/ and were lost in the woods I’ve heard people say.” In the song the babes never do find their way out of the woods; “they sob and they sigh”, they “bitterly cry” and ultimately, poor babes in the woods, “they lay down and die”. And we’re supposed to somehow be comforted that when they were dead, the robins (so red) brought strawberry leaves “and over them spread” (“and all the night long/they sang this sweet song/ poor babes in the woods/ poor babes in the woods). So, no. No. While it is a wild stretch to call my left brain a forest, that part is, to me, the less familiar, the less used, and certainly the colder of the two. I’m not comfortable with keeping track of my sisters there.
I want them in my kitchen, at my hearth and table, and in my garden. I want them walking through familiar and unfamiliar neighborhoods with me, laughing (or crying) at life’s unfathomable turns with me, singing with me in church. Watching a movie with me, in a window seat, drenched in a rare shaft of sunlight. I have known them all their lives (being the oldest), and they know me, since I’ve been there all their lives. I feel smart and clever and beautiful in their company, because they are smart, clever, beautiful, and kind, and they love and value me as one of their own. Sibling rivalry notwithstanding. We are permanent features in each other’s lives, and somehow we have become sanctuaries for each other. There is safety, validation, and hope in our numbers (or masses, since to me, numbers aren’t an absolute).
This last year (which, to date, has been the hardest of my life), through the fall and winter and abortive, cold spring, my sisters have cradled me during my most fragile moments (and here, I don’t just mean the Wilson girls; I mean also old friends and new neighbors, ladies at church, aunts and cousins, far away correspondents and courteous strangers at Target—most of whom have no idea that I am in a fragile place). They call. They visit. Include me in their lunches, 5Ks, and temple trips. Chat. Smile encouragement and acceptance. Post stuff on my Facebook wall and send texts and emails. They bloom and grow and struggle and I catch hopeful glimpses of their efforts. Especially, they share with me the things they’re learning in their own fragile moments. Not realizing their impact; they are just being themselves, doing what they always do.
I think that is why Andrea pled. She needs cradling too. This blog, for her, is a connection to her sisters. A strength in numbers thing, a cooperative tug her direction in her personal tug of war. I can do that, Andie. Here I am darling. I love you. And thanks.
