Tonight I am getting a very late start on my blog. It has been a mixed bag kind of day–I did many of my Sunday chores: grocery shopping, laundry, changing my linens, paying my rent. Then I did what I often do on a Sunday: watched TV and vegged for a few hours before heading over to my sister Ruth’s house for Thanksgiving dinner day two. Most of the food was almost as good as it was yesterday, but even more than the food was the fun and silly interactions I enjoyed engaging in or watching throughout the evening. And I find myself grateful for the umpteenth time that I belong to a collection of people I call family.
I was talking recently to a colleague who is an only child. She was telling me about all that she does with and for her parents when they come to visit her here or when she visits them at the warm sunny place they’ve retired to. As I listened to her I found myself trying to imagine being part of a family of three instead of a family of eight. As her parents age she is already thinking about how she will take care of them as they get older, about how she will likely move where they are or bring them to live with her once they can no longer function well on their own. I can’t imagine having grown up with my whole world being my parents and not having at least one sibling as peer and playmate. Tonight at my sister’s house I enjoyed watching the banter between my niece and nephew, the natural give-and-take that happens when you hang out with and speak the special language of siblings. I had it with Ruth and my brother who is just older than me more so than I did with my older siblings, but even with them we have a sense of shared history though we experienced life from the various vantage points that birth order provides.
At the bottom of all this is a sense of belonging to something, part of a group, a family clan, a tribe. What I experienced as I sat at Ruth’s and whenever I find myself at the home of one of my siblings is a sense of place and one of connection to the people around me. Sometimes I am more acutely aware of this than at others, but tonight I felt it deeply as I chatted with my sister and her mother-in-law after the kids had retired to another room. I belong here, these are my people. I have found myself at times envious of friends and colleagues whose parents are still alive. Sometimes I think I would give just about anything to be able to spend a few hours with my mother again, to hear her laugh, to see her smile, to hold her hands, to touch her face. But I find that I can often do all those things by spending time with my siblings in whom I see so many elements of both my parents–in their smiles and facial expressions, in their beautiful hands with long, shapely fingers, in their mannerisms and sense of humor. It’s not quite as good as having them back, but almost.
I am so happy to be connected to my siblings and their children. The next generation of family continues to shape and evolve into a fine group of young people. Our family is safe in their collective hands. We are all part of this web of connection that goes beyond simple genetics. These are my people. I belong to them and they to me. We are connected. And for that I am most deeply grateful.
