Stories

Life is not a sob story. Life is beautiful. I do not write this to gain sympathy. I write this to share my story, my life.

           

            I cried today. Yes, I am well aware that it was largely due to nasty hormonal swings thanks to mother nature’s horrible timing, but still. The tears I cried today represent a long, long story. It is one that, when I set out to write my spiritual autobiography, ended up dominating a large portion of it. More than I expected it to, honestly. Were I to write it again, today, other things would take its place. But that is another story.

            Life is nothing but a long succession of stories.

            This story begins in my childhood back yard. Oh I have such beautiful memories of that place. Sometimes I am tempted to go back there and simply bask in the memories. It has changed much, and it would definitely freak out whoever lives there now, but to see those trees again, to climb them, to lie beneath them and gaze through their leaves at a clear blue sky… Someday I will return.

            As a child, I literally have almost no memories of being inside. That back yard was my home, and most of my earliest memories run together in a blur of blissful days. My brother and I were inseparable companions, adventurous imps, tree-dwelling sprites. I’m quite sure our elbows were never quite free of dirt and our knees were permanently scabbed, but our joy was the inexpressible joy of children in childhood. When I look at pictures of those days, I am never without the biggest grin my pixie face can stand without absolutely exploding with joy.

            Oh for those days to return.

            In summer we were tree fairies. There is something magical about trees. Their bodies and branches must hold old souls. They must be crotchety old men and wise old grandmothers. They simply must. There is no other way they could hold such fascination for children. Nature is alive for all who choose to see it, who choose to dwell in its beauty and bask in its personality, but children are more open to such things. They have not yet learned what is improper and what is acceptable. They have not yet been taught nature is dangerous. To them the wide world is a friend, the brook is still playful, the grass still a carpet, the sky still looking down on them with benevolent eyes, the trees still hold out their arms to shield them.

            Our feet were bare, our faces covered with freckles. Our hands were sticky with tree sap, our hair in knots from wind and climbing and simply not caring. We built tree-houses worthy of remembrance and utterly unsafe. We dug holes in the earth, utterly pointless but entirely exciting to our young minds. We relished stolen rhubarb, eaten raw until our mouths puckered.

            In autumn we basked in the leaves that fell from the ancient oaks that towered over us. Their long arms shed their summer garb and we, with childish relish, raked to our hearts delight until we amassed what seemed to us to be mountains of leaves, simply waiting for us to hurl our tiny bodies into their musty embrace. I still remember the smell of slightly damp oak leaves and the innocent bliss of being buried to the neck in leaves, watching clouds scud across a crisp autumn sky.

            In winter we played king of the mountain on the giant piles of snow at the end of our driveway, burdens to our dear father, but gifts deposited by the plow just for our especial enjoyment. We bundled up like mini Michelin men until only our bright eyes poked out of hand-knit scarves. It was a constant struggle to keep the snow out of our mittens. I still remember the swish-swish of our giant snow-suits as we tromped up the wooden stairs from our basement, ready to brave the outside world.

            Sometimes we stayed out for hours, captivated by the wonders of the magical world, building forts, throwing snowballs, or simply chasing each other across our playground of a backyard, our footprints crossing and re-crossing as we adventured in our own world. Sometimes we stayed out for approximately ten minutes, got bored, and returned inside for hot chocolate with marshmallows. But always we were together.

            In spring our tradition was two-person mud football in the previously deserted side of the house. Mud football day was the only true marker of spring’s arrival, the harbinger of summer’s joy. Our snow pants made one final appearance – this time paired only with old sweatshirts and our giant boots. I’m not sure how children’s snow boots always seem too large. But we could never do a thing but clomp in those things. Perhaps that is what comes from having nothing but hand-me-downs until the age of ten. The mud stayed caked on those pants til the next winter when the snow washed them clean once again.

            I would pay money to see that spectacle again – two skinny little white kids attempting to play mud football. I would pay almost anything to see all of those days again, really. They strike me as excruciatingly beautiful.

            I think perhaps the most tragic thing about childhood is our inability to properly treasure it. Part of what makes childhood so beautiful is the utter abandon with which children live. They do not ponder their lives - they simply live them with joy. Yet this same innocence also brings a certain superficiality to the way children live. They cannot appreciate it for all its worth because they do not know the alternative. They have not understood great sorrow and so they cannot know the depths of joy. I think that is why we so often look back on our childhoods with such longing – we wish to tell ourselves to treasure those moments. We seek to return to them with all the painful things we have learned of the world because we now understood how invaluable those simple days were.

            It is a treacherous balancing act. Looking back, I wish to return. The present seems far more bitter than those sweet days. Yet would I return to the childish ingratitude? Never. I have learned to be thankful for joy in the face of pain, of bitterness. It makes it real, gives it depth, color, flavor. It gives life and maturity to joy.

            I could go on for days of the joy of childhood. But now I must move on to the more painful days. It is simply another story, another piece of the grand story. Our lives are stories, and every tale must be told.

            It seems the question that must always be asked is Where to begin? Where do we begin to tell the tales of our lives? It is not as though as we live we realize Oh, an important story is starting now. Pay attention, dear heart, you will want to remember this later. Someday, you will look back and hope to remember every detail, every emotion, every word spoken. Sadly, we can only ever realize too late that something of importance has begun. Best to live each moment as though something great were beginning.

            I remember moments though details. This one is built around a surprising mix of The Little Mermaid 2, brown carpet, an air mattress, listening at the door, and an entire pan of my mother’s fantastic pumpkin bars. The detail of Little Mermaid 2 places this particular memory around 2000, when I was eight or nine, my brother Michael 12 or 13, and my brother Daniel around 17. For Michael and I, this was a night of general confusion. We were sent upstairs for a sleepover with a seemingly endless supply of rented movies and an entire pan of pumpkin bars. Translation: Do not disturb. Do not come downstairs. While we were understandably pleased with this situation, we also understood that something was wrong. Something important was happening downstairs and so we listened at the door of the stair, hearing only snatches of angry conversation and raised voices.

            We didn’t understand what was happening. I still don’t understand what happened that night. Sometimes I look back and wonder if things could have been different, if that night could have ended another way.

            Daniel didn’t learn from music, he learned by ear. Our mother tried to get him to play what was printed on the page. He played what he heard in his head. Looking back, I think maybe that says a lot about him. He was simply different. He was utterly himself and refused to be his two older siblings. My parents wanted what they thought best for him – to be the perfect children Matthew and Anna had been, go to college, and graduate with honors and a ring. But Daniel didn’t learn from music. He learned by ear. He told my parents he wanted to learn from his own mistakes. And he did.

            I do not blame my parents. I do not blame my brother. I can never understand what happened then. It is not my story to tell, and I have not heard it from those who lived it. I have only my memories of scattered moments and conversations.

            Family is such a tricky thing. I really do not understand it.

            Where to begin? My dear, beloved Michael. He and I were always so close. I looked up to him as I looked up to no one else. If I ever have a daughter, I will name her Michael, for him, in honor of him. He has no idea. Perhaps someday I will have the courage to tell him.

            Sometimes I wonder what really happened. There is so much of his life that I simply do not know. I do not know what he has experienced, what he has seen, heard, felt. In so many ways we are so alike, both passionate, artistic, personal. We both have a tendency to hold onto things, to be moody, we both are a sucker for weepy, depressing music. But yet, what do I know?

            It is the strangest feeling to go my brother’s wedding, look around at those there, and think, “You all know him so much better than I do. You have experienced life with him, you have laughed and cried with him, you understand what makes him tick.” It is moments like these that make me despair.

            There are literally years of my life in which it seems like I really didn’t have brothers. Most of my days seem as though I don’t have brothers. It is easier to forget than to try. My brothers can make me cry like almost no one else can. Like I said, family is a tricky thing.

            It’s far easier to live in the past – to look fondly back on how things used to be and to wish for those days to return.

            Newsflash. Those days are never coming back. And to cry for their return is foolishness.

            Sorry, that was for myself. Sometimes I have to curb my dramatic tendencies.

            Life is a story. One long, beautiful, tragic, romantic, horrendous, excruciating, joyful mess. And it is constantly moving, constantly continuing. We tell stories for a thousand reasons, to entertain, to remember, to pass the time, to teach. When I began to tell this story, it was mostly to dwell in the past. I began it by saying it was not a sob story, but to be honest, that is what it was fast on the road to becoming.

            Writing brings out the sappy sentimentalist in me.

            But at the moment, I have another reason for telling this story, and that is to remind myself of the love I carry for my brothers. Family is a tricky thing. You simply cannot stop feeling love for them, and yet it seems nearly impossible to properly express that love. I will tell anyone I meet that my parents are two of the most deeply wonderful people I have ever encountered in my short life. I am unbelievably blessed to have them as my parents and I love them more than I can say.

            But it’s nearly impossible for me to tell them that.

            I adore my brothers. I think they are unbelievably talented, brilliant, and despite everything that has happened between us in the past, I love them more than I can say. But that love is so meaningless, simply because I do nothing about it. I cry for the past, but I do nothing to alter the future.

            The days we are living today are tomorrow’s stories. The stories of childhood write themselves, for we simply live. We simply flow with life’s days. But now we have the power to reflect, to understand and experience joy in spite of and in the midst of pain and difficulty. We have the power to write our own stories, stories with meaning, maturity, and life – the kind of stories we will relish telling.

            But we need not long to return to them, because the story we are now living is just as beautiful.