Hands, eyes & heart - dream reweaving

Last night, John & I took a feast of Chinese food over to where my brother lives, about forty minutes from Squirrel Haven.  It was the first time that we’d connected in at least six years.  If ever there was a dream rewoven, fresh fabric from many old, frayed strands, it was my experience last night.

Considering all the health problems Peter has faced over the past years, particularly over this last year, he looked good.  Not his dashing old self, but pretty close.  The confident bearing was still there, the sense of this being someone you’d like to get to know, with a keen mind & interesting history.

My three surviving siblings have always been challenged by their baby sister.  They share a common history, a common generation, and a common communication pattern.  The very things that connect them distance us.  Perhaps no one more than Peter.

This isn’t the time to go into our complicated history, but suffice it to say he seems to feel that while he was Paul Newman’s twin brother, tragically separated at birth, I’m on par with Walter Cunningham.  

Someday I’ll write more about my funky relationship with my older sibs, but not now.  Am too darn happy to spend time looking backward.  Last night, I got to wrap myself in a rewoven dream.  Pretty darn special.

Driving down Easton Road - containers of Chinese food carefully double-bagged with a towel draped over to keep it as warm as possible - it dawned that I’d followed my own advice.  That felt great!

For all my life, Mom never asked Mim or Peter to do anything.  Me?  Oh, sure.  Them?  Never.  Her reasoning was simple – she didn’t bother because she knew their response.  I was stunned.  My mother – the key grown-up in my life – hadn’t a clue that you ask a question in order to put it out there, because the asking changes energy, opens up possibilities.  To me, the answer is less important that the asking. Until last night, I didn't see any parallel between my feelings about asking questions & taking supper to Peter.

It was just a few weeks ago, on Peter’s birthday, that John & I surprised him by bringing over Chicken Szechuan from his favorite place.  We played it safe, dropping it off at the front desk, letting staff get it to him.   

By the time we got home, the light was flashing on our answering machine, with a burbling with happiness message from my brother.  Later, we got a note in the mail, along with an invitation to come over & pick up Christmas presents. 

Hmmm…  It was easy to drop something off, then hightail it out of there, but actually connecting?  It seems to make sense, but only if you don’t know our history.  In my experience, the only time I am visible to my brother is when he needs something.  Did I risk the uncertainty of fully reconnecting, or play it safe?

What a dumb worry.  If this opportunity hadn’t been what I’d hoped for back when I kicked off my “one book, one family” experiment five years ago, then what was? 

Connecting, but only sort of, just part way? 

Which was when it hit me, driving down the PA Turnpike toward the Norristown exit – not going would have been like not asking a question, protecting myself against the possibility of whatever rather than taking the grand risk of something different. 

The evening was a lot of fun.  Peter hasn’t changed – we talked about people he knew, events he experienced, matters that were dear to his heart.  But I had, because it all - all - felt good. 

It helped that I’ve learned to recognize my limits, the places NOT to go, that could stir up pain. 

Peter responded with understanding when I explained it would be wiser to skip looking at the precious albums of pictures he has of his granddaughters, currently living in Australia.  It is a great sadness that, for reasons that make sense to her, his daughter has unfriended me on Facebook, has no contact with me. 

Whitney was my maid of honor, someone I admire immensely & respect even more.  There were two ways I could have responded to the opportunity to get updated on her daughters.  Hopefully, the time will come when I can bear the inevitable sadness of what isn’t, but this visit was about establishing a positive benchmark experience.  Sadness would have been out of place.  I took the safer route. 

Praise be, there wasn't a hint of sadness last night.  If anything, it felt brushed with otherworldly joy.  As it might have been.

As I write this, am thinking about my brother, Ian.  He has been on my mind more than usual since this past Saturday & the memorial service for the mother of a classmate.  Geneva was a rare, truly epic woman, gifted at friendship, parenting, and life.  It was one of the opening hymns – When He Cometh -  that first reminded me of B-Boy.  He’d replace “All His jewels…” with “All His Julies, precious Julies…” because he’d lost his heart to Miss Julie de Maine (his 4^th grade teacher?). 

Ian was Peter’s boy.  When I was born, 14-year old Peter very seriously informed our mother that she would have to take care of this baby, that 4-year old Ian was his.  It’s impossible to imagine how devastated our oldest brother was when 11-year old Ian was killed, while Peter was out in California.  Even as a fairly young child, I’d wonder if Peter would look at his irksome baby sister & think the wrong sibling had died.

That tragic time & sad thought were far from my mind two days ago.  Sitting there in the church, the music all around me, thoughts of Geneva filling my mind & heart, the inspiration of her children & grandchildren & great-grands & so many other loved ones – and especially singing “All His Julies…” - brought Ian close in thought & heart presence.

For the first time, I had the sense that while Ian has been gone for over half a century, I can be his hands in this here & now life, with all my siblings, but especially Peter.  I can be Ian's eyes, his feet, his heart.   

That sense was with me when we drove down Germantown Avenue toward Peter.  It felt more than good – it felt right.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve cherished those times when things feel like they’ve come full circle.  Last night was such an experience.  Five years ago, I set out to reestablish connection with my USA-based sibs.  Last night, Peter & John & I had a high old time, over plates of General Tso Chicken, pork lo mein, nuggets of sweet & sour chicken.  

Peter had people with whom he could share stories of “Uncle” Harold & “Aunt” Clara, about times & people who meant so much to him.  He got to be the brash young man – with looks like a Main Line patrician, the dry wit of a William F. Buckley, the confident swagger of an any-age Paul Newman – that strode through my life. 

Last night went beyond things coming full circle. Last night, we got to experience a dream rewoven, fresh fabric from many old, frayed strands.  So far beyond special wonderful unforgettable.  Oh, what can happen when energies are set loose, when possibilities are opened & life is lived without a safety net!