Uncategorized

Lessons From My Sister–And The Sea Creatures

/ middlesisterkathleen / 7 Comments

15590168_1550014341680151_293483791419753097_n

LESSONS FROM MY SISTER—AND THE SEA CREATURES

I sat sweltering and sweating, but savoring the sun and steam at the beach with Suzanne and her daughter, Julia.  The waves rolled in, crashed, ebbed and flowed, high-tided and low-tided, drug in seaweed, reflected the sun and the moon and then did it all over again.   All the while, the sea creatures did their thing too.  And then did it all over again.

20374717_1792192207462362_3771669017294610256_n[1]

We made it to the beach again—safely.  Just as Suzanne said we would.   Our plane didn’t crash—just as she said it wouldn’t.  I need to listen to my little sister more.    I need to look up to her more.

20376182_1792171517464431_5627680847084609334_n[2]

There were three kind strangers behind me in the airport who picked up my things as they fell out of my bag and caught up to me to give them back.

These should have been my first three clues.

My carry-on bag was obviously overstuffed, and losing its contents.  I struggled to carry it in my arms as I wheeled my suitcase along, so I tried to strap it to the handle of my wheeled bag.

Suzanne glided along smoothly, with her light load, consisting of a (smaller) wheeled suitcase, and a small, over-the-shoulder carry-on.  Julia had an equally small wheeled bag, and a small backpack on her back.

I had seven books packed in there.  I had snacks.  I had my jewelry holder.  I had water, which, of course, had to be drank before security.  I had my Kindle.  I had other stuff.  Too much stuff—obviously.

**

Jettison:  to throw or drop something from an aircraft or ship; to throw away as no longer useful.

I am a self-proclaimed word nerd; I wear the badge proudly.  This particular word was the word-of-the-day not long ago on my calendar, and it quickly came to mind.  As I walked through the airport with this ridiculous load in tow, this word wouldn’t leave my mind.

I watched my little sister advancing easily along toward our gate.  Her 21 year-old daughter did the same.  I, however, struggled.  I, however, signed up for this.  I didn’t expect their help.  I did expect Suzanne to tell me I didn’t need all this stuff.  She did, and she was right.

Unlike Gail and me, Suzanne is a minimalist.  Gail and I strive to be more like her, but so far, it’s not working.

When Suzanne moved to my small city about six months ago, she jettisoned many of her possessions.  She sold or gave away much of what she owned, and started over—minimally.  Gail and I have been collecting stuff, and living in our homes 20 and 21 years respectively.  We want to be like Suzanne when we grow up.

Perhaps it is her minimal nature.  Perhaps it is her experience with cancer that made her realize she doesn’t need stuff. Perhaps it is both.

Perhaps she feels at one with the sea because the sea offers that same lesson to anyone willing to listen.  All one really needs on the sea is a minimal amount of clothing.  The creatures of the sea also offer that same lesson.   They may or may not carry a shell on their back, and sometimes they shed that.

“…but the sea does not change.”  These lyrics were the first to come through my earbuds after I turned on my iPod (name that 80’s tune, if you can) as I started my morning run on the third of our four mornings there.

I don’t believe in “coincidences,” so I will take it as something meaningful.

I should have left the iPod in the room and listened to the crashing waves, because I can listen to music any other day.  These precious few days here are the only ones I can tune in to the ocean.  Ocean music trumps 80’s music—or any music for that matter, but, like so many other habits, I rely upon my daily patterns, this one with music to get me running.

Another habit I engage in during my daily run at home is the mental lamentation of my left knee pain.  I know the point as I take off down the driveway when it starts, I know the downhills hurt more and the uphills hurt less, and I focus on the exact spot inside my knee where the pain resides.

Except today.  I wasn’t in that daily groove like I am at home, so I didn’t think about it.  And there were no hills on the beach.

And it didn’t hurt nearly as much.

The sea does not change, but I did.

I know the power of the brain.  My day job is in the field of brain rehabilitation.  I know how habits are formed.  I know how patterns in the brain are made.  And I know they can be changed, starting with conscious awareness of them, followed by simply thinking differently about them, then ultimately acting differently.

I have some nasty habits, some patterns that should have been turned around long ago; some that should never have been started in the first place.

So I started looking around here on the seashore.  There before me was a wealth of learning opportunities, lessons from the sea and its creatures waiting to be learned.  In the spirit of keeping my 51 year-old brain in better shape than my left knee, I am always up for taking in new information, no matter how or where I can find it.

SEA TURTLES:  I didn’t see any sea turtles, but I know at least one had been there, and more would soon proliferate there.   A female Loggerhead Sea Turtle had crawled ashore and buried her eggs in the night, and returned to the sea.  The rule on the beach is that sea turtle nests are not to be disturbed—under penalty of law.   The nests are roped off, monitored, sponsored, studied and revered.

20525946_1792108124137437_2120122690685367122_n[2]

When the buried eggs hatch, they climb out of the nest and go toward the light.  Hopefully, this light is the moon reflecting on the sea, and they crawl back in.   To minimize the chance that they will go toward artificial light instead of the sea, beachfront property owners are urged to keep their lights down because the baby turtles will not survive long if they go the wrong way.

Following the true light is a survival matter.  So it is with humans too, but we can survive longer than the sea turtles in the darkness if we choose to follow that.  Except that the darkness is the wrong way, and too often we don’t listen to those forces that try to guide us into the right light.

SEAHORSES:  I have long had a fascination with seahorses.  Julia does too.

In my work with the brain—and as a word nerd, I latch on to the cool words that describe its structures and functions.  Hippocampus is one such word.   It is the structure largely responsible for memory.  It is shaped like, and named after the seahorse, as hippocampus is the species name of the seahorse.

The male seahorse takes it upon himself to gestate and give birth.  Having been the star of Act One in the delivery room twice, I have a respect for him that is beyond words.

Both seahorse sexes shake it up a little bit and swim vertically as well horizontally.  I like any person or creature who goes against the grain, and I try to examine the grains of every social fabric before I go with it or against it.  Even if everyone else is doing it, it might not be right for me.

Seahorses aren’t easily found on this beach, and we weren’t lucky enough to find one. Julia, however, did find one on a trip to Mexico with her mother four years ago, and she has been fascinated ever since.   To commemorate this creature and this trip, I found this necklace in a cool little shop called Landing Company.

20476191_1792115240803392_1385795912122578768_n[1]

In celebration of Suzanne’s five-year cancer survival, she deserved her own special piece of jewelry.  With the capable, kind and personalized attention from the amazing jewelry lady Dawn, we were able to find the perfect necklace in Landing Company, something Suzanne truly wanted—and she doesn’t want for much.  It was a beautiful silver image of her favorite sea creature:

20476268_1792115064136743_1044839103362127877_n[1]

THE MERMAID:  Don’t bother telling Suzanne they are not real, because she has chosen to believe they are.  She has a new-found fascination with this mythical (real?) creature, and to show her just how happy I am to still have her with us, I put it on my tab with the seahorse necklace.

The mermaid is noted to have powers of telepathy and immortality.  Suzanne has always had an intuition that I cannot explain.  Before she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer five years ago, she consulted several doctors.  An ENT and a radiologist pronounced her without cancer, but nevertheless, she persisted.  She knew something wasn’t right, and she moved on to a doctor who found the problem, and began treatment.  Now, five years after she visibly exercised her power of telepathy, her powers of immortality have commenced.

May these powers live long, and may she continue to inspire all of us with her powers that, like the mermaid for her, are very real.

 

CRABS:  One of our favorite restaurants in this beach town is Crabby Bill’s.  Seafood is a local specialty—of course—and this spot is our favorite. I am not a crab eater, but there is a lesson to be learned from crabs.

In a bucket of crabs being harvested, if one tries to crawl out, the others will pull it back down.  No wonder they are called crabs.

Don’t hang out with crabs.   They will try to drag you down to their level.

Our host at Crabby Bill’s was Ed.  Our dad’s name was Ed.  He even has the same sweet smile that our dad had.

20476348_1792115907469992_8780852584635888707_n[1]

We also found an old friend there from last year.  Gregg was the host we mentioned in my first blog post, and of course, he remembered us.  Gail was the one who hugged him upon his introduction last year, but he remembered us too.

20376131_1792115834136666_4404870660418179338_n[1]

Now, because I don’t want any of you to suffer the fate that the next creature can deliver, I must bring you down for a moment.  I promise I will bring you back up.

SEAGULLS:  Recognize them for the beautiful creatures of God and Nature that they are, but beyond that, be careful.  They are takers.  They may charm and woo you with their natural beauty, but don’t be fooled:  They are there to take.  And when you give them—even a little, they will stay for more, because they already know your weakness.  They know they can get something for nothing from you, so don’t even give a little.

Leave them to their own devices and vices, because they are not going to change.  Give up hope, as I mentioned in my last post.  Give up hope on changing a creature who only knows how to take.  Bless them and send them on their way.

Shoo.

**

We missed Gail terribly.  She was with us last year in this beach haven, and even though we thoroughly enjoyed Suzanne’s daughter as proxy, there is no one like our sister Gail.  She is the spark plug that ignites our fires inside and outside.

People remembered us.  Even before we checked in to our hotel Friday night, one of our favorite restauranteurs greeted us heartily when we stopped in for a late dinner.

20525886_1792115970803319_4894001171758318006_n[1]

Gail was not able to join us, as she had recently returned from a trip to Michigan to see one of her older daughters.  Suzanne and I, however, kept her spirit and her memory alive here.

We were able to reach out—without Gail–and make a few new friends.  Fred B. happened to be sweeping his driveway as we walked by his house.  He lives adjacent to our resort, close to the beach walkway.  We were staring, slack-jawed at this perfect little house, perfectly located by the beach.  His house has been in his family since the 1930’s, and he has lived in it since he arrived in the 1940’s.

We are so jealous, but a house like this couldn’t belong to a nicer man.

20375912_1792108724137377_8908338362721601949_n[1]

20429950_1792111500803766_7814561465577634938_n[1]

Dawn at  Landing Company, and Terri Anne at The Tervis Store are now counted among our friends there, too.

**

The sea does not change, but after spending this trip with Suzanne and her daughter, I am motivated to change.  Suzanne’s spirit of minimalism is admirable and I want to be like her when I grow up.  So I am starting small, but starting nonetheless.  Despite the purchases I made that, perhaps I didn’t really need, I am trying to jettison other possessions at home.   I am trying harder to recognize the patterns of thought in my brain that lead me to repeat the same futile actions over and over yet again.

Next time I’m preparing for a trip, Suzanne has volunteered to pack for me.  She said she will be able to fit it all in a Zip-lock bag.

Like the sea creatures, we shouldn’t need all this stuff.

Like Suzanne, we should all celebrate every day of this life we are granted, because, unlike Suzanne, we are not immortal.

**

This post is dedicated to Suzanne the Survivor, and to Denise who is fighting the fight right now.  Denise, let’s plan a trip to Florida in five years—and maybe even before.

 

 

 

 

 

PEACE, SISTER

/ middlesisterkathleen / 14 Comments

15590168_1550014341680151_293483791419753097_n

This post was written in January, as I was preparing to launch my blog.   (Clearly, it took me a bit longer than that.)  There will be no post next Sunday night, as one of my sisters and I are taking the trip we postponed as described below.  Of course, there will be a post about this trip when I get back—Thanks for visiting my blog!

PEACE, SISTER

If I live to be a thousand years old, I will never understand how a person can inflict harm, pain, injury and/or death upon any other human being in the name of peace, in the name of war, or in the name of their god.

Another mass shooting occurred in a major airport in our country just a few days ago, a day after I was scheduled to arrive in a nearby major airport—with one of my sisters.  We had already postponed the trip due to an ice storm here, and bad weather there.

In the name of my kind of peace, I am writing about this awful reality.  I didn’t mean to make it so heavy so soon, but it begged to be written, so here it is.  I promised to keep these posts optimistic, so I will bring you back up before the end.

**

Our mother used to ask “Why can’t people just get along?”  Good question, Mom.  Let’s dissect it.

Because we are human.  Because we are flawed.  Because we are inclined to believe we are always right, and the other guy is always wrong.  Because we are in agony inside.  Because we think the other guy needs to make peace.  Because we don’t all define peace in the same way.  Because we can’t see past our own perceptions.  Because we choose to see the darkness instead of the light.  Because hurt people hurt people.   Just because.

What in the world can we do to keep this madness from happening again in this crazy world?  We feel helpless, we feel paralyzed with fear, but that gets us nowhere.

FEAR:  False Evidence Appearing Real.  I found that acronym and its meaning written somewhere in Mom’s handwriting after she was gone.  I had seen it before, apparently it was one of her favorites; she wrote down what she liked.    It’s a good one.  Fear is paralyzing in itself, and it gets us nowhere.  And there is usually no good reason for it.  Like when I am flying.

Mom loved to write.  Not books or poetry or anything long, but she would write quotes, quips, and letters.  None, however, were more memorable than The Letter.

The Letter Mom left was a masterpiece, a directive; a treasure. She kindly asked us, after telling us this would be the last time she would try to tell us what to do, to live lives of peace.  She was specific about her request; she left it in no uncertain terms, no easy ways out; no loopholes.  (I’ve looked hard, there are none.)  She asked us in front of 500 people, leaving it with a note to be read at her funeral.  She asked us to live our lives by the Prayer of Saint Francis, commonly known as the Prayer for Peace.

Saint Francis was clearly a Christian, and while he is most commonly associated with the Catholic Church, he is revered and honored by many Protestant churches as well.  He is known as the patron saint of animals, and many churches observe his feast day of October 4th with a ceremony to bless animals.

19990259_1776448945703355_5672104031866556333_n[1]

Please know that I respect any religious views, as long as they don’t hurt anyone else.  A major tenet of all world religions is kindness toward other humans, and this prayer exemplifies that very principle.   I am biased, I know, but I feel the core of this prayer is a universal message that needs to be heard, whether you are a Christian or not, a believer or an atheist.

Saint Francis was a living, breathing, imperfect human being who struggled like we all do, but also in a unique way that most of us likely never will.  He was born into a wealthy family who prospered in the textile trade.  He lived in Assisi, France from 1181-1226 A.D.  He chose to give up his riches, privilege and a life of comfort in order to lead the life that led him to write the following prayer.

*20155693_1776426885705561_6932026361567573641_n[1]

“Make me an instrument of your peace.”  It begins.  Note that it doesn’t ask for peace to be delivered on a platter to the person praying it, it asks for them to be a vessel, a tool, a worker bee.  It goes on to cover every possibility, every eventuality that any human could encounter, any situation whereby one may expected to be this instrument of peace in a situation that needs it.  It actually asks for work to be heaped upon the person praying it.

“Where there is hatred, let me sow love.”  We were never allowed to use the “H” word in our house, not in reference to a person.  We could hate their actions, but we couldn’t hate them.  She was grooming us for this task even then.

“Where there is injury, pardon.”  Mom loved the sitcom “Happy Days,” we all did.  Especially Fonzie, who could never say he was ‘sorry.’  He would drag the ‘s’ out, starting with “I’m ssss…,” but he could never completely say he was sorry; couldn’t utter that word.  For most of us—myself included, saying “sorry” is hard work.  Harder than that, is forgiving the person who cannot say they are sorry, even when they know they should—like Fonzie.  Hardest of all is forgiving the person who doesn’t even know they wronged you.

As a writer, I keep a prayer journal.  I try to write daily, petitioning for my own needs, as well as for so many hurting people.  In my imperfect efforts, I try—as much as it hurts—to pray for those whom I feel have wronged me.  It is hard, so hard that I can only write their initials.  There are seven sets of initials I write each time.  Not long ago, I looked back over those seven sets of initials, representing seven separate hurts I carry around.  I realized that if all seven could see their initials there, and know why they are there, five of them would likely say “What did I ever do to you?”  Some may even have the gall to say “You hurt me, I didn’t hurt you.”

Most of us, I feel, carry around such hurts, and the person who inflicted the pain on us has no idea, no sense that they did anything wrong.

Did they?  Or did I?  All I know is I need peace inside when I think of them, and I clearly don’t have it.   Dave Mason’s 70’s song comes to mind:  “There ain’t no good guy, there ain’t no bad guy.  There’s only you and me, and we just disagree.” 

Forgiving them, forgiving myself and moving on is the pardon this prayer speaks of.

“Where there is doubt, faith.”  Mom had an undeterred, rock-solid faith in God.  All she had to do for this one was set her example for us to see in her every action, every word, every deed, and every thought, when we were able to read them.  We usually couldn’t.  She remained a mystery in a good way.

“Where there is despair, hope.”  None of my siblings remember her saying it, but I do.  One of her best quotes—I think—is this: “Since I gave up hope, I feel so much better.”  In her infinite wisdom, I believe she was speaking of giving up hope only when it involved changing another person.  The kind of hope she wanted us to bring is the kind that shows people that faith in God can chase away the dark clouds that hang over all of us from time to time, sometimes hanging over some people too long for them to dispel them by themselves.

“Where there is darkness, light.”  I lived in several basement apartments in college.  Sunlight was a precious commodity in the little windows where it managed to seep in at certain times of the day.  After that, no matter where I lived, I maximized the sunlight through the windows.  I never shut the blinds during the day.  As I write this, I am just now realizing that perhaps my mother’s example in our childhood home set this tone for me. She pulled the curtains only when someone was lying sick in the living room—which became a temporary hospice room–in order to provide them the most comfort.  The curtains, where we had them, were always light colored.   We lived on a farm, so we didn’t have any peeping neighbors to worry about.   She always tried to live in the light.  Again, she was plotting.

“Where there is sadness, joy.”  At the expense of her own potential joy, Mom strived to bring joy to others.  She didn’t care about her own first, instead, she knew that if she brought it to others, then this would bring her the ultimate joy.  I continue to reap what she sowed, I find the seeds of joy she planted in small and large things in so many aspects of my life.  It is now my job to continue to harvest them, and most importantly, replant them for others.

**

“Oh divine master, grant that I may seek not so much to be consoled as to console,

To be understood as to understand,

To be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”

**

And there you have it.  A perfect prescription for living peace in everything you do, think, feel and say.  A tall order, I might add.  Since she put it in writing, and made sure it was read in front of everyone at their funeral, we really can’t break this contract, even though we didn’t agree to it; didn’t sign it.

Every day, I try to live by these words.  Gail gave all the females in the family a bracelet with this prayer engraved on it, and I wear it nearly every day as a reminder.   Most days I fail, some days I fail miserably.  But I keep trying.  I must give it my best.  If you’re not already doing it, I hope you will take these words and let them seep in, and then let them be the words you try to live by, too.

That was Mom’s wish in The Letter.  If we all follow Mom’s order, then perhaps her question would no longer have to be asked.

Along with The Letter, Mom left each of us a prayer card with this prayer on it.  We learned from her friend that she wrote The Letter about ten years before she died, and likely prepared the envelope with the seven cards in it at that time.   It’s the last gift—and the most meaningful gift she gave me to carry, and to carry on without her.

20046639_1776427245705525_6002178924003153027_n[1]

The original letter sits in a safe deposit box in a bank vault.  While it was read to 500 people at their funeral, it remains a valuable and personal treasure for the seven of us, her “Magnificent Seven,” as she called us.  Therefore, to honor this privacy, it will not be shared.

Instead, please know that my parents were incredible Instruments of Peace.  To honor that, we chose to have this prayer engraved on the back of their headstone.  Any act of peace—small or great—is a tribute to them, and to all of humanity.  We are all in this together.

It bears mentioning that Dad’s middle name was Francis.  And, our current pope–Pope Francis–chose his name in honor of Saint Francis.

20031556_1776426692372247_7322426247990512163_n[1]

Peace, sister.  Peace, brother.  Peace, everyone.

 

 

SWHEAT GIRLS PART TWO: NOTHING IS SURE BUT SISTERHOOD–AND THIS BRAND NEW TATTOO

/ middlesisterkathleen / 9 Comments

15590168_1550014341680151_293483791419753097_n

WELCOME BACK TO THE SISTER LODE!

This week I am honoring not only my sisters, but a special pair of sisters who have been an integral part of my life for many years.  Thanks for joining us!

19748739_1767977609883822_8107479073398834610_n[1]

Left to right:  Tana, me, Amy

**

I wish I would have rolled that word around in my mouth a little longer back then, like a piece of hard candy.  I wish I would have realized its bitterness before I uttered it, before it had to be swallowed all these years later.  Now, it tastes more sour than sweet.

NEVER.

As in, “I am NEVER going to get a tattoo.”

I don’t know how many people I likely uttered it to in the last, oh, say, 30 years or so.  Probably at least several, because I thought it many, many, many times.

Life has a strange way of turning us into liars, even when we don’t want to lie.  Especially when we so desperately wanted to hang on to the truth as we once knew it.

The truth, however, is that the truth about ourselves changes.  It changes with us as we grow, as we evolve into that better person we are now today, different from the person we were yesterday.

And this is a good thing.  This is a thing to be honored at all costs.

**

Eight hours ago, I waved the big driveway wave as my dear friends drove away.   They were here for six days, and those six days raced by like six hours.  The other half of the group left before sunrise yesterday; we bade adieu before bed two nights ago.   Back to Phoenix they went.

19959234_1767970163217900_3405017086738919170_n[1]

These two groups consist of two dear sisters and their families.  These two women have been in my life since 1984 when I was a mere 18 years old, and they were 12 and 8.

I was their babysitter. Now, their children are older than they were when I met them.  I wasn’t so much a babysitter as a household manager and a companion.  They lived with their farmer father during the summers, and their mother in Phoenix for the school year.  Their dad was a busy man who covered a lot of ground—farm ground– and he needed help with his daughters during his busy season.

And so it began.

We have pictures from their visits from the last 20-plus years; one such picture shows both me and the older sister pregnant with our now-almost 17 year old sons.   And here’s one from several years after that, with my sons flanking hers:

19894802_1767969639884619_3891748824096292340_n[1]

Then, in just a few blinks of an eye, here they are again:

19598523_1478577308831553_6731913276314625862_n[1]

They haven’t missed a year.  Their children, they tell me, start asking weeks ahead:  “How soon until we leave?”

We do essentially nothing.  We drink coffee until noon, work on a puzzle, talk, eat and then swim in our small above-ground pool.  We may enjoy a cold libation or two.   For the 4th of July, however, we become more festive.  We shoot fireworks, go fishing, and the boys hunt bullfrogs— as they are preparing to do above, and cook them for all of us to eat.  We have an annual water balloon fight.  We simply have fun, because, if you remember from my first post, fun is generally under-rated and under-exercised.

19756609_1767971479884435_3902176058047482970_n[1]

19748789_1767971196551130_4598684195778846926_n[1]

And, of course, we do a puzzle.

19894630_1767967923218124_4695116532970791071_n[1]

The girls and I love to bake; their mothers don’t.  This year, it was fresh cherry pie with cherries from our backyard tree, raisin cream pie and baklava.

19894791_1767972519884331_2011275097702165000_n[1]

They enjoy my siblings as well; we stopped to see Suzanne at work.

19989367_10213664376343907_7225249040971422020_n[1]

Gail passed through on her way to Michigan to see her daughter, taking her younger daughter along.  Those two sisters got to enjoy each other’s company, something they don’t always get to do.

19875505_10209987292822824_1239071862215292918_n[1]

There are four children and one husband between them.  They are the houseguests extraordinaire.  They don’t stink after a few days, as the saying may suggest.  They are beloved by my husband and boys as well.  They know and love my siblings.  They keep the wheat separated from the chaff.  They make me laugh.  They make me cry.  They made me get another tattoo with them.

**

Tana and Amy have stuck together through thin and thick.  Through their parents’ divorce.  Through the loss of their beloved stepfather.  Through a divorce each. Through infertility, adoptions, the loss of one child’s father, estrangements, life and all it had to throw at them.  Through it all, they kept coming to see me.

Every summer, they join us for the 4th of July.  Every summer, since 1984, we have enjoyed jigsaw puzzles together.  Last summer, I was touched and honored by Tana’s idea:  “Let’s get matching tattoos of a puzzle piece with the American flag.  You have to get a border piece, because you have always held us together.”

And so we did.

This year, to celebrate our wheat farm-girl heritage, we had the same idea separately, from a thousand miles apart:  “Let’s get wheat tattoos.”

And so we did.

A single stem of wheat, with the writing of our choice woven into the stem.  Tana’s simply says “home,” because she will always think of The Wheat State as home.  Amy’s says “ad astra per aspera,” which is the motto on the Kansas state flag.   It’s Latin for “to the stars through difficulties.”  Mine, because I saw this on an antique poster long ago and have always loved it, says “swheat girl.”   Imagine that.  It is in my own handwriting.  My father likely would have rolled his eyes and laughed at this on earth, but I feel him beaming with honor and approval from above.

Each of these are small, meaningful, tastefully and discreetly placed.  That is all you need to know.

Through these difficulties, these “swheat” girls will always have a home in my home as long as they wish to come.   May they continue as long as we are all able.

**

So now I have these tattoos.  I swore I never would.  Never say never.  Greater than that, I am thinking about how I judged—and still judge– others for things besides their tattoos; other actions I have no right to pass judgment on.  Few of us ever have the right to do that.  Few of us ever have all the information.  Few of us can prove a spotless record and the authority that allows us to determine when others are doing something “wrong.”  And the definition of “wrong,” as we think we know it, may change over time, or from situation to situation.   Or our definition may be different from theirs.   I strive to make every day Non-Judgment Day.  It will be a lifelong effort for me, but I am trying.

**

In those early weeks and months after my parents died, I know my actions reflected my state of mind.  Unlike tattoos, however, this grief was hidden deep inside, invisible to anyone who didn’t know what was going on in my life.  I was likely–in alternate and unequal measures–sad, angry, flippant, depressed, crying, laughing, unaware, grouchy, sullen, short-tempered and any other emotion imaginable.  I likely treated people poorly in my efforts to make it through the day—or the moment.  If someone had treated me like that, I likely would have judged them—without having all the facts.

Now, when I encounter a grouchy waitress or an unkind stranger, I think, perhaps, “maybe her parents just died.”

I have a friend who has multiple tattoos.  She wants more.  She swore she never would.  Then, her college-age daughter died of cancer.  She pays tribute to her in this way.  It is one way she honors her daughter’s memory, and that, even though she once thought it was, will never be wrong.  Ever.

This post was hard for me to write.  It was hard to expose this part of myself.  Most of you don’t know me, but if you do, this may surprise you.  I was a wallflower for many years.  Now, I realize, I have become a wildflower.

“I never would have thought Kathleen would get tattooed.”  I hear your thoughts.  I still hear them in my head, too.  But, in order to honor that truth I spoke of in the beginning of this post, I got them.  And I am writing about them.  They are meaningful to me, just as other’s tattoos are meaningful to them.  They are art for the body, and art is a good and necessary thing—no matter what form it takes.

It’s more fun here on the wildflower side.  There was nothing wrong with life as a wallflower, but it was time.  Time to listen to the little voice that begged for expression through writing, my other favorite art forms and through the tattoos.

It is highly unlikely that my sisters will ever decide to take the tattoo plunge, and that’s the right thing for them.  They have supported my decision, and I am grateful for that.

**

No regrets, my friends.  This is as sure as sisterhood—and the tattoos.

19756493_1767970459884537_3753503646091154011_n[1]

Once again, Happy Independence Day.  Keep it alive every day by separating the wheat from the chaff, and honoring the truth about who you are deep inside–even if it changes.

Special thanks to Brandon, our go-to guy for tattoos. Let me know if you need his expertise.  And, without the one-and-only Edgar Hake, I would have never met these “swheat” girls.

 

SWHEAT GIRLS: Separating the Wheat from the Chaff

/ middlesisterkathleen / 31 Comments

15590168_1550014341680151_293483791419753097_n

SWHEAT GIRLS:  SEPARATING THE WHEAT FROM THE CHAFF

19756604_1759937557354494_5526553150979117856_n[1]

No trip is shorter or more meaningful in our family history and heritage than the one Suzanne and I took today.  It is a mere 72 miles from my home; I could drive it with my eyes closed.   Suzanne moved to my small city about six months ago, so we enjoyed the ride together. Gail wasn’t able to meet us there from her home several hours west of the farm.  So we persisted—without her.

Today, we drove to our family farm to partake of the annual wheat harvest.  I have only missed one harvest in my life; even a quick ride in the combine and/or the truck constitutes a visit.

That one harvest I missed was in 1991.  I was spending the year in suburban Philadelphia, fulfilling a one-year contract as a nanny for a couple with a 2-year old girl and a 4 year-old boy.

I was between degrees, and leading a gypsy lifestyle.  No real job, no real money, no real boyfriend, so I set out on an adventure.  (That “no real boyfriend” became a real boyfriend when I got back, and eventually my husband.  The story may or may not be covered in a future post.  Stay tuned.)

Mom, in her trademark thoughtful style, knew I was missing harvest, so she sent me a card with several heads of wheat tucked inside.  The kids and their mother were unimpressed, but the chemist father was intrigued.  He sat on the patio with a head of this wheat, examining, feeling and dissecting it.  After about 20 thoughtful minutes of inspection, he appeared to have a revelation:

“So this is what they mean when they say ‘separate the wheat from the chaff.’”

**

Therein lies the challenge. Keeping the good stuff, and letting the rest go.  And I don’t mean literally, as in what Suzanne is doing in the picture below:

19601131_1759937717354478_7449085866234980079_n[1]

**

Most of us—myself included—carry around too much chaff.  We hang on to useless, dirty, compostable refuse.  We think we need it—and I’m not talking about material stuff, although that describes me, too.   I’m talking about worries, concerns, stresses, hurts, regrets, sorrows, anger, illusions, fears and despair; you get the idea.  We don’t need any of it, but we cling on like a life raft.  Without them, we fear, we will sink.  We won’t know how to function.  They propel us forward, but only into a life of more misery; more of the same.  We hang on because we have always hung on.  Because it is now a habit.  Because we don’t think we have a choice.  Because we don’t even realize we are hanging on.

**

At the time of our parents’ deaths, our older sister Gail was owner and sole proprietor of a Daylight Donut shop in her small western Kansas town.  She toiled long hours with little sleep for many years, churning out donuts and other sinfully delicious pastries.  The glazed donuts were always the best sellers.

“I used to get so mad at myself if I made too many glazed donuts, or not enough glazed donuts, because they sell the best and I never knew how many I should make.” 

Life changed for all of us after that day.  We were hanging close and comforting each other in the days and weeks after.  We took the time to open up and talk, trying to find ways to ease the pain.

“Now, I don’t care anymore about the ******* glazed donuts!”  You have to know Gail to understand the full emphasis of the expletive.

The metaphor was obvious.  In our heightened state of awareness, we realized, at that moment, that we still cared about other, equally unimportant glazed donuts.  We had just been given a hard-earned gift, a tool of insight that would allow us to measure any stress against the one we were all surviving.  In this comparison, every stress was as inconsequential as a glazed donut.

“It’s just a glazed donut.  Let it go.”  This became our mission statement.  It still is.

**

Harvest is the climax of the agricultural year.  The wheat that was planted nine months ago is ripe, and ready to determine the financial course of the next year.  Some years, it’s a make-or-break proposition.  It can be wiped out by hail, hammered down by high winds, flooded, frozen, or rendered nearly worthless by the Wheat Gods who determine the price.

Dad used to say that the farmer is the only businessman who doesn’t get to set the price for his product.  Dad was a very wise man.  Mother Nature and Uncle Sam are often ruthless relatives to deal with in one’s farming family.

On purpose, I didn’t marry a farmer.  Neither did my sisters.  One of our four brothers, as well as his two young sons inhabit our now 5th-generation farm.  They, along with help from our youngest brother who also farms with his father-in-law, are capable stewards of the land that is part of our family heritage, and will continue to build our farm family legacy as my two nephews have shown a keen interest to continue down this path.

I am so grateful.

The home I grew up in is set to come down later this summer.  Mold overtook it, and my brother, his wife and their three children built a new home close to it.  The house that built me will always be in my heart, even after it no longer stands.  Sticks and stones they are, but if they could, the walls would speak of sheltering this family of nine for four decades.  They would speak of a family history warm with love, respect and kindness between the seven children and two parents who inhabited it for all those years.  We had enough but not much extra in terms of material things.  We always had enough love.

Always.

 19601440_1759966647351585_1633717398311001898_n[1]

**

Suzanne and I arrived in the harvest field mid-afternoon, and stayed for several hours—long enough to ride in the combine with our nephew, and for a trip to the elevator with our brother.

19554697_1759937024021214_8340654948434950964_n[1]

The air hung still in unlikely Kansas style, with nary a breeze.  The dust wafted straight up in small clouds and hung lazily.  The sun beat down hot and hard when it came out, and I loved it all.  I sweated, got dusty, dirty, scratched, greasy, stinky and fulfilled.  And, when it was all over, I truly felt like a swheat girl.

19554558_1759938017354448_3430759189701021955_n[1]

Traversing the hills is part of the adventure.  Hugging the right side of the road as the peak of the hill approaches is non-negotiable.  The vista from the top is beautiful, but until you get there, you must assume there is a truck or a combine coming at you from the opposite direction.  And, chances are that whatever you are driving, you are no match for either of those behemoth farm machines.

19554969_1759974800684103_2034417659756046617_n[1]

 

The roads often fork in this part of The Wheat State.  Should you go left, or should you go right?  Should you turn around?  Or should you just sit and think about it?  Sometimes the road more traveled appears to be the safe choice as below.

19702008_1759938390687744_3928188594522735430_n[1]

Or, sometimes it’s a 50/50 proposition.

19601205_1759938090687774_3277054674011643561_n[1]

So many decisions in life.  Separate the worthless from the valuable, the good from the bad, the wheat from the chaff and the glazed donuts from the important matters.  Get rid of the chaff, just like the combine so effortlessly does.

19598656_1759936714021245_435964469278323879_n[1]

“After harvest” was the answer I frequently got from Dad when I asked him if I could have something—whatever material thing I thought I needed before harvest.  It always depended upon the success/failure of each year’s cash crop.  Imagine one paycheck a year, with no guarantee how big it would or should be, or if it would even arrive at all.  Such is life on the farm.  I learned to simultaneously respect and fear harvest, to love and loathe it at the same time.  I am so glad my brothers and their families love it.  Keeping our farm in the family is priceless, and I am forever grateful to them.

For myself, I decided to leave it behind.  I swore I wouldn’t marry a farmer, and I didn’t.  I never fell in love with one either, so who knows.  But I never want to miss harvest.  It is the culmination of one year of my brothers’ work, the annual peak of my farm-girl heritage.  It is what our economic lives revolved around for my first 18 years.

More importantly, harvest is a symbol.  It is the golden wheat, and I continue to learn to leave the dirty and useless chaff behind.  The glazed donuts are no longer a part of my life either.   Gail opened my eyes in her forceful, meaningful, expletive-rich statement, and I took it to heart.

Today, in the center of The Wheat State, Suzanne and I celebrate all that—as well as a golden day with each other.   And, of course, with Gail and her donuts—or lack thereof–in spirit. 19554420_1759936490687934_7965154539688390526_n[1]

 

***

Thank you for reading my blog.  My second-favorite holiday is approaching in two days, and I wish a safe and Happy Independence Day to all of  you.  Greater than that, may you make every day Independence Day as you leave the chaff–and the glazed donuts behind. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nevertheless, We Persisted

/ middlesisterkathleen / 12 Comments

Thanks for your support from last week, and welcome to the next edition of The Sister Lode!  I am attempting to post on Sunday nights, hopefully to provide a bright spot for your upcoming week.  This post was written a few months ago in preparation for this blog, but the message is timeless. 

15590168_1550014341680151_293483791419753097_n

It wasn’t right to leave Suzanne behind, but it wasn’t right for Gail and me to stay home either.  We were caught between a hard place and a rock, so we rocked on-without Suzanne. Something about a new job and not having vacation time yet.  I am going to have a word with her boss.

We rocked west, toward the Rockies.  We lingered in the Springs—Colorado and Manitou—as we typically do on our biannual trips, then began the ascent.  This year, as part of our effort to shake it up, we took my car, instead of Gail’s.  We further shook it up by not stopping at our usual waystation at Limon, deciding to donate a portion of our proceeds (before any losses) to deserving people we met along the way, staying in a different room (we have a favorite room at our favorite place), and multiple other small twists that, unfortunately, didn’t twist our fate at the casinos in the direction we hoped, the direction it had never taken in our multiple trips here.IMG_20170330_190837420_HDR

One thing we will never change is our Rocky Mountain High ritual.  On the final stretch of the last leg of the seven-plus hour trip, we pop in John Denver’s Greatest Hits CD to play—you guessed it—Rocky Mountain High.  Except this time we both forgot our CDs.  And we had no wifi that deep in the mountains, so we couldn’t bring it up on our phones.  So I turned on satellite radio to fill the airwaves in the car.  I hit the preset to the 70’s station.  An Aerosmith rock tune was finishing up, and even though I didn’t particularly like the tune, I left it.  A few moments later, there it was–you guessed it:  John Denver singing Rocky Mountain High.

We were as speechless as I am wordless to describe it.  At that moment, at that place, there it was.  It was a gift from Above.  I don’t even know what else to say.  Except that it was Dad’s birthday—he would have been 83.  We took that as a gift from him.

19430082_1750975758250674_1964485103010753792_n[1]

**

So there’s Christine.  She is our favorite shopkeeper-turned friend; she is soft as whipped butter and sweet as powdered sugar, and we patronize her store—9494.  It is a unique gift and jewelry shop named after the town’s altitude.   We come to town with lots of sparkling pretty bling, and we leave with even more.

IMG_20170330_190658589_HDR

And there’s Mike and Rick.  They are the proprietors of the Cripple Creek Hospitality House, the former Teller County hospital-turned-B&B.  They love us, we love them, and we now stay nowhere else but there.  They treat us like royalty, which, of course, we think we are.  It wouldn’t be fair to include a picture without Suzanne on this epic trip, so this one is from last year, on the steps inside Mike and Rick’s place.

12801281_10206137400657926_2846351318215615859_n[1]

There are a number of dealers and pit bosses Gail has gotten to know quite well.  She is the only one of us who plays the tables, and she knows no strangers, so naturally, she has made friends with most of them.   This time it had been a year since we were there, most times it is only six months.  Of course they still remembered her.

Tonight, it’s Don.  Don is the “nocturnal innkeeper” of the Hotel St. Nicholas, another B&B.   We stayed here three or so years ago, and we met him then and never forgot him.  Tonight, we realize, he didn’t forget us.  We stopped by and found him in the basement bar, aptly named The Boiler Room.  We are enjoying a drink with him, catching up on local news—both bad and good.

Because this is an active gold-mining town, the linings to the dark clouds are golden, not silver.  While we had to do a synchronized walk of shame away from the casinos after we lost all our gambling money—or so we told each other–we both had an ace in the hole.  We had tucked away cash to get home, and to buy back some of our dignity.

Greater than that little stash of cash, though, was the sure knowledge that we were bigger winners than anyone at the casinos.  Even bigger than David, the blackjack player sitting next to Gail who would bet, and then win or lose more money in a single bet than either of us brought and lost all weekend.  David had a poker face until we broke through, then his smile was there to stay.

We seem to have that effect on people.

After we lost our money, I had a moment of profound awareness:  I had just lost X dollars, yet I felt so rich.  I was a winner.  After the frustration, disappointment, shame, guilt, anger (at myself for thinking yet again that I would win) and emptiness fell away, I felt joy filling me up inside:

*I was nestled deep within the splendid beauty of the Rocky Mountains; in one of my happiest of all my many happy places.

*I was with my older sister, one of my two best friends in the world.  (We missed Suzanne dearly, but we persisted, just as she wanted us to.)

*I had the gift of health and physical ability to get myself here.

*I had the means to take such a trip, I even had the means to throw money away in the casinos.  I save for this trip all year in an offshore account.   And, as the captain of my career ship, I decide when to set sail.

*Win or lose, I get to determine my own happiness–or lack thereof.  No circumstance, and most importantly, no other person decides that for me.  Neither one should decide yours for you either.

**

I found a charm pendant with the newly popular phrase “Nevertheless, she persisted” just before our trip, so I bought one for each of us.  It became our mantra for the weekend.   It was famously uttered in reference to a noteworthy woman named Elizabeth.  Our mother was named Elizabeth too; she was noteworthy in a much more profound way.

First, we persisted in throwing our money away, and after licking our wounds, we then persisted in finding the good in this loss.  We have made it our way in life to find whatever good we can in a situation, whether it be a set of circumstances, a difficult person, or the weather.  We persist in our quest to see the glass as half-full, and we generally succeed.  We realize it is a choice, and even though some see us as Pollyanna-ish, we don’t care.  We’ll let them see the negative if they choose.  That doesn’t work for us.  It never has, and as time passes, more certainly, it never will.

No foolin’—even though it was April Fool’s Day on Saturday of the weekend.  You have the choice to look at your cup and call it half-full, just as easily as you can call it half-empty.  Your call.  Others may tell you how it really is—in their minds.  Usually it is dark in their sky, and they want yours to be clouded over too.   Their cup is half empty with a crack in it.  Don’t give in, don’t buy it.  Let them wallow in their own emptiness and darkness, and follow the fullness and the light—your light.  Your choice.

We have our own light, and we welcome you to follow it—except you can’t follow us to Colorado, or anywhere else, for that matter.  Our trips are highly exclusive and private, because we need this time alone with each other, even if it is only two of us.  The third will always be present in spirit if there are more trips of only two in the future.  Be it just two or all three of us, we will continue to offer our positivity here to nourish yours.

Persist.  Push through.  Keep your chin up, and your sights high.

Nevertheless, sister, persist.

IMG_20170330_190315057_HDR

The Sister Lode

/ middlesisterkathleen / 12 Comments

15590168_1550014341680151_293483791419753097_n

I sat in 28B holding my sisters’ hands.  The take-off and landings are the hardest for me, so when I booked the trip, I put myself between them.  They are not scared.  I am.  I squeeze their hands for the first five minutes, those first five when the flight is most likely not to make it—extremely infinitesimal chance, according to one of our four brothers.  He pilots one of these silver birds; he knows.  But then, he always acted like he knew what he was talking about anyway.  We still love him, we love them all.  But this is only about sisters.

My sisters are used to my in-air neuroticism by now on this, the last of four flights to complete our trip.  We have never before flown on our travels, always by car.  We take off out of O’Hare, we will land in just under two hours.   The sun is setting to the west, and on the opposite horizon the full moon is rising.  We climb above them both.  This is something I have never seen before and may never see again.  It, like our latest adventure, is priceless.

We have had the time of our lives.  We always do.  This time it was on a beach.

**

I have always been close to my sisters, but over the last nine years, they have become my best friends.  They are always there for me, and I do what I can for them.  We don’t see eye-to-eye on everything, but that’s okay.  We respect each other’s differences.   We don’t argue.  We keep peace; we have to.  We have no choice because our mother saw to that in The Letter.

We know of many women who don’t feel such peace with their sisters.  Women who may want to feel it, but don’t know how.  Women who have the choice to opt out of peace and harmony.  We don’t have that choice, and that’s okay.  We don’t need it. We do feel the need to share our peaceable ways, to share the love.  We don’t always know how, but it usually involves simple advice like, “Figure it out,”  “It’s not about you,” “Let it go,” or “Life is too short.”  Advice that sounds easy, but is harder to put to work.   Most importantly, we teach by example.  This, my friends with and without sisters, is how we do it.   We would like to help in whatever way we can.

Perhaps we can help you too.  That is why we are here on this blog.

**

Life is short. We learned the hard way, and will never forget that lesson.   We use it now to celebrate our sisterly bond, to find all the joy we can on our travels, and to simply have fun every day, traveling or not.  Fun, we have observed among others, is generally under-exercised and underrated.  We refuse to follow that example. We try to compensate for all the fun our mother never had the time or the money to have, as well as our own share for our lifetimes.  And then some.

We post some of our antics on social media, but not all.  Some things, however, that happen on our trips, well, you know where they stay.  We don’t share it all.  We do, however, share enough to show people we have unparalleled fun; experiences that most people don’t think of having; don’t think is possible.  It is with us.

Many people ask—some in a coy, shy, roundabout fashion—if perhaps they might possibly be able to come along on one of these trips someday with us, maybe?  Perhaps? They see the fun we have, and they want to be a part of it.  Who wouldn’t?

The short answer is no.  The long answer is hell no.  Our sisterhood is the exclusive price of admission.  Nothing personal.

These are sister trips for us only, because only we three understand the importance of this time together as sisters.  We celebrate the joy in the moment, remember the good times of the past, and relish the lessons life and loss have taught us.  We stay positive.  It is a choice, and we choose positivity.  By and large, we don’t let crap creep into our lives.  We ain’t got time for that.  There is too much fun to be had; and we are out here having it.

 

**

It is fitting that our usual getaway destination is an active gold mining town.  Cripple Creek, Colorado is nestled behind Pike’s Peak, and in its heyday, it’s gold production rivaled the California Gold Rush.  The mother lode was struck there, and it became a boomtown.  There are beautiful mountains there, but no beaches.  And it was time for the beach.

We had already hit the mother lode, and the father lode too.  They were, quite simply, the best.  Now, we celebrate our sisters in the Sister Lode.

**

Most people wait five years to observe a milestone cancer survival date.  We’re not like everyone else, so my sister chose to celebrate it at four. Besides, she knows.  She has an unshakeable faith in God, in her good health and long life ahead, so why not celebrate now?

So we did.  On the beach.  Her choice.

Since we can easily make friends even with someone as cold as a snowman, we had no trouble signing up a fresh batch of folks we now call our friends in and around our new favorite warm, sunny beach town.  No snowmen here.  We have new BFFs in this delightful place; we could probably eat Thanksgiving dinner with them if we asked. We might.  Except that our oldest sister hosts Thanksgiving every year, so we probably won’t.  We will all be at her house.  Perhaps we will invite some of them to join us there.

In order to make these friends, we may need to go against some socially prescribed norms.  I’m all for that, rules are meant to be broken, or at least stretched, so we do.  Anyone who might have the good fortune to be around us when we are in this friend-making/rule-breaking mode will easily see that we mean business in our fun.  We make our own rules, and if we need to break them and remake them, we do.  For example: We just met this group of locals in this hole-in-the-wall bar, and most outsiders like us wouldn’t even talk to them, but we do, and when we leave, we will hug them and tell them we love them, and we will mean it.  Or, it’s probably not generally acceptable to most people to hug the manager/host as he greets us upon our arrival in his restaurant, or to dance with the owner—complete with a dip– as we leave, but we do it anyway.  We’ve told our life stories to the hotel clerk within five minutes of meeting her, made her laugh like never before (she says), then made her an honorary sister on the spot. 

Most people wouldn’t dream of these antics.  We don’t dream of it.  We do it.  That’s the difference between them and us.  We are doing it, and, if you want to, we want you to do it too.  Whatever it is.  Whatever makes you happy, sister.  Whatever brings you peace.

I will celebrate the wonderful sorority of true sisterhood through the bifocal lenses of Real Life and Real Loss, always from a place of peace and positivity.  I’ll double down—no, triple down–on optimism, with a healthy shot from each of us.  We want to share the love with you.

You, and perhaps your sisters—if you have any.

We’re here for you; right here in this blog.  Thanks for coming along.