How I Ruined My Sister's Life

I've been writing about cake a lot lately.  I've also gained five pounds recently. But, I'm sure there is no correlation between the two. 

Last autumn my siblings and I looked at some old family slides we had found stashed away and forgotten in our mother's Michigan basement. I mention the Michigan part because I'm pretty sure keeping slides in a damp, musty, underground room isn't considered ideal and both age and environment were conspiring to destroy the precious photos that document the history of our fragile and fractured family.

Along with the box of slides, we found an antiquated slide projector that pretty much consisted of a metal box, a small light bulb, and a fan. My brother took the rescued slides and projector home and eventually located an outrageously expensive little light bulb on Amazon.com that would fit the rickety old projector. It is amazing and wonderful that you can find almost anything you want on the Internet if you are tenacious.

Anyway, when we all got together in the West Virginia mountains last fall we arranged furniture to accommodate viewing the photos on a blank wall, settled in with popcorn, and prepared to see what stories were contained in the disintegrating film. We found some photos that made us laugh, some that gave us pause when we considered that everyone in the photo (a mere generation ahead of ours) had died, some that contained mysterious stories, and some that wordlessly captured the mood and emotion of a moment.

This is my sister, Karen, on her fourth birthday.

Clearly she is delighted to be announcing she made it to this big day. She's surrounded by friends at a party solely devoted to celebrating her, and our mother had obviously made quite an effort to decorate a fancy birthday cake. In all, she seems a very happy four year old.

This is my sister, Karen, on her fifth birthday.

No friends. No special party. The cake is prettier (a clear sign our mother had nothing to do with making it), but she obviously had no intention of sharing it. With anyone. This is not a happy five-year old. She may have made it to this momentous day but nothing in her expression says she's celebrating it.

What happened in the span of a year to cause such a change in demeanour?

Me.

The story of my arrival and my sister's response is one of the better known and laughed about stories in our family.  Karen, our brother, Darrell, and I all have December birthdays. Which makes us wonder what was going on with our parents in March. But then we try not to over think that part of the story. Regardless, when my sister turned four she was happily the darling youngest child in the family. Mommie Dearest had her ideal 1950s family; an adorable boy and girl. Life was good. Or at least it could be made to look like it was.

And then came March.

I was born five days before my sister turned five. Her gift that year was an adorable bundle brought home from the hospital on her very birthday. 

She was not amused.

In fact, nobody besides my brother seems very happy about the blessed event.

Damn March.

Karen says she remembers the day quite vividly and the photos tell the truth. She was miserable. She didn't particularly want a baby sister and she wasn't in the least bit interested in sharing the affection of our brother who had always been her buddy and protector. In photo after photo after photo, prior to my arrival, they can be seen together, giggling. In every shot, Darrell has his arm lovingly draped around her. No doubt Mommie Dearest staged this but his genuine affection for her is obvious. But now, she wasn't his only sister.

Today my siblings and I share a sweet bond. Having survived a childhood our mother wanted others to think looked like Leave it to Beaver but actually resembled something more along the lines of Loony Tunes, we share the same funny stories, sad revelations, and bittersweet memories.

My arrival may have rocked the boat and ruined my sister's fifth birthday. She might not have had my brother all to herself anymore. But it turned out okay.

After all, he had two arms.

Vive la Difference

What kind of person do you want to be? The ones in the first seat, the second seat, or the third seat?

The other day I got an email, with this photo attached, asking which kind of person I want to be. The sender included the comment: "I believe I know the answer but had to ask."

I admit, I love being known. But really now.  Anyone who knows me could answer that question. Heck, anyone who's ever met me in line at Starbucks could probably answer that question. My first row way of living is a little hard to temper.

I've tried.

But it doesn't work. And it never will. Because I'm not a third seat person. Or even a second seat person. I've spent my whole life with my skirt blowing up and laughing about it. I don't foresee any significant changes as I get older.

At first glance you might look at those women in the third row and assume they aren't having any fun. Or, you might assume they are intensely thanking their divine Deity of choice because they aren't sitting next to those obnoxious women in the front seat. Either of those might be true.

Or, it could just be they have fun in a quieter, more subdued way. I don't actually have any experience with that, personally, but I'm sure it is possible. Some people do enjoy life quietly. I have a few friends like that. Not many, admittedly, because these are not the people who tend to seek me out as a friend. I don't think they are entirely comfortable in my company. I tend to make quiet people anxious. But just because they aren't like me doesn't mean they aren't enjoying life. There isn't anything wrong with them. They are more inward. Those women in the third row could be unhappy. Or they could just be quiet.

The women in the second row seem to be having fun although I sense something else going on inside them. Like maybe they feel a little self-conscious. Or maybe they are feeling embarrassed for the women in the front seat. It is a sure bet the women in the front seat aren't feeling embarrassed for themselves. Trust me. I know. If embarrassment is necessary, somebody else is going to have to do it.

Overall, those second row ladies seem to be enjoying themselves. Perhaps less outwardly, but that doesn't mean they aren't having fun. I know a lot of second row types. Some of my favorite people are second rowers. They approach life with joy, but a bit more reservation. It's just how they are wired. They can go to bed at night relieved that they didn't make fools of themselves but still feeling fully satistifed that they had fun.

I appreciate the second and third row ladies. I really do. Because life is richer when it is made up of all kinds of people. Difference is good. Everyone can't live life in the first row. If so, the world would be wild and noisy and forever teetering on the brink of outrageousness.

But, thankfully I do have some first row people in my life. I love them dearly. They get me. I know I don't embarrass them and they don't mind that I live life out loud. They live out loud with me. Where two or more first rowers are gathered....you won't find a third rower...but that's okay because everyone doesn't have to be the same or like the same things or want to be doing the same things.

Please don't ask me to sit in the third row. I simply can't.  And please don't expect those women in the third row to be in the first row. They can't either. It would only serve to make them miserable.

If you know a third row person, tell them you love them today. Don't be so bold as to hug them or anything and for God sakes don't make a big deal of it. But tell them you love them just as they are. All quiet and everything.

If you know a second row person, tell them you love them today too.  Go ahead and give them a hug, laugh a little, and let them know they are wonderful in what they bring to life.

And if you know a first row person, tell them you love them today as well. If you can get them to be quiet long enough. You might have to jump up and down. Clap. Yell a little. Spill something; they will be able to relate to that. Let them know they are wonderful, even in all their annoying exuberance.

Because we aren't all the same. And we aren't supposed to be. Life is made up of quiet and noisy and all that lies in between. Our lives are richer and fuller and simply better when we embrace people of all colors, orientations, personalities, and volumes. If we were all the same it would be a very boring world.

Respect difference.




 

A Brave Mystery

I love a good mystery.

I don't mean in the Agatha Christie sense. Not that I dislike Agatha's famous writings, but the mysteries I love are those which are part of daily living; those inexplicable happenings that change our lives in ways we never thought possible. Obviously I'm referring to the positive mysteries of life. The negative mysteries are a whole different blog post.

Anyway, lot of people like to try and explain the inexplicable which, if you think about it makes absolutely no sense. But that doesn't stop them from trying. And I certainly can't say I'm not guilty of making attempts to make sense of things. By and large, though, I like to bask in the mystery of the unexpected.

Several years ago, when we first moved to Colorado, Steve, Charles (who was an infant), and I went to a quaint, little art gallery in Central City. It is located across the street from the Opera House, above what used to serve as the county jail.

The uneven floors and exposed brick walls offered a certain charm that highlighted the art displayed throughout. We took our time admiring the works of various artists and Steve, somewhat offhandedly, said, "Someday I hope my paintings will be hanging in a gallery like this." 

We left the gallery that day and eventually forgot about his statement. During the following years we had two more children and Steve focused on raising our family and building his career. His painting largely fell by the wayside as trying to paint with small children could be somewhat chaotic and painting alone meant time away from them.

Things took a turn, however, when the owner of a start-up company Steve was working for decided to turn it into a shut-down company. One day he had a job and the next day he didn't. It was a tough time. Finances were tight but our young family's needs were many. Steve dropped into a funk which turned into a full-blown depression. Some days were very dark. I took a job working at the public library and Steve started doing projects on contract. Friends were generous and caring and eventually our situation turned around.

As a part of coping with his depression, Steve started painting again. The contract work provided for the needs of our family but painting is what fed his soul and brought him out of his depression. Some days his paintings were dark and dreary, but more and more they became beautiful, evocative, and inspiring.

The library where I worked was a brand new, beautifully decorated building with space for a small art gallery. A call went out for local artists to begin displaying their work and Steve decided to submit his paintings for consideration. It was a bold move as he'd never shown his paintings to many people. But, he took a chance and put it out there and was invited to hang his paintings in the gallery.
That one step encouraged him to start entering juried art shows.

Not long afterward, he was notified that his painting had been chosen to hang in a gallery alongside the submissions of other Colorado artists. We were excited as we prepared to attend his first opening celebration. That evening, as we climbed the stairs to the gallery I realized that this was the place where he had expressed his hope that one day his artwork would hang in a gallery.

THIS was the quaint gallery with the uneven floors and exposed brick walls. His spoken desire, expressed years before but largely forgotten by us, had come full circle into reality. He wasn't showing his art in just any gallery. He was showing his art in the very gallery where he spoke his hope.

I can't explain why his spoken wish came true. I believe in the power of prayer. I believe in the power of speaking things into the universe. I believe in positive thinking. But I can't say I know exactly why things happened the way they did.

It is a mystery.

What I do know is the desire of Steve's heart was to have his artwork shown in a gallery and he bravely started putting his work out for others to see and judge. Literally. It takes courage to submit his paintings before an established artist who  will determine if they were worthy of entering into a show. Steve paints from his soul, not his head. It is his very being he submits for judgment.

It is frightening.

No amount of prayer or positive thinking would have mattered if he had kept his work hidden at home. He is a humble artist and faced his first (and every future) submission with fear that the core of who he is would be rejected.

Since that first show, he has had paintings in several state and regional competitions. Why that spoken desire in a little gallery years ago came to reality is a mystery. How it came to be is an act of courage.

For the past several years Steve has dreamed of securing a spot in the Rocky Mountain National watermedia show. The competition is open to artists across the United States and hundreds of amazing artists submit paintings. Only a few are chosen. Last week he opened a letter saying, "Congratulations!"

In September a painting signed with his name will be hanging in his first National Show. A pretty big deal in the art world. So many years ago he stated his wish but if he had let fear rule and hadn't entered that first show in Gilpin County he'd still be dreaming of making it into a national show.

So yeah, I love a good mystery. But I admire courage. 

Because if we let fear hold us back we undermine the magic of mystery.