Because...because...because...I love her: the story of two sisters

Today was my sister’s birthday. We enjoyed a small dinner together, complete with flowers and prosecco and a small cake sporting a tealight smushed on top (as I couldn’t locate the legitimate birthday candles). It was a lovely evening, and on my bike ride home, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for living so close to her now, after a decade of being separated by a big fat ocean. She is, in many respects, the most significant person in my life. She has provided constancy and peace to my sometimes fluttery and frenetic self, and she has been involved in most of my important life decisions, as a sounding board and objective, nonjudgmental advice giver. She is the one I call when I feel confused, disappointed, heartbroken, panicky, overwhelmed, afraid, excited, lonely, proud. She listens well, offers me perspective, and frequently reminds me of who I am on the days when I forget. She gives me hugs even though she herself is not a hugger simply because she knows I need them, and she often holds onto truth I need to hear until I am ready to hear it, always cushioning it patiently and lovingly in Larissa language. She understands, appreciates and respects how I view my world, how I live my life, how I make my decisions, even though my way is often vastly different from her way. I trust my sister probably more than anyone else in the world, and I feel genuinely blessed to have such a solid and safe relationship with her. There have been a few sticky spots over the years- obviously- but generally, for the majority of our teenage and adult life, we have been the best of friends.

Now, as for our childhood years, that is somewhat of a different story. There is photographic evidence of us playing together nicely- dressing up and acting out stories, building snow forts, playing with Barbies, making dances, colouring- but there are many many many memories of us playing together not so nicely. We fought constantly, so much so that our grandparents didn’t want both of us coming for our extended summer visits at the same time, so we took turns, alternating years. We fought, of course, about the most menial and ridiculous things. Once, in Florida, when we had received identical erasers in the shape of a slice of an orange, we fought about who owned which one, because one eraser had a millimeter more smudging than the other, and both of us had claimed that the minimally more used one was not ours. Simply ridiculous.

Our fighting was partially due to the fact that we were very different kids. I was a sensitive child- not wimpy or whiny, just soft and sensitive and incredibly transparent. My feelings were hurt easily, though I was quick to forgive. I was a people pleaser, a perfectionist, and a rule follower. My sister, on the other hand, exited the womb stone-faced, strong and stubborn. She was fiercely independent and much more introverted, an experimental thinker who wanted to know why she had to do things a certain way and often didn’t give two shits about doing something the same way as everyone else. She was also an excellent little liar and could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. Many of our childhood fights involved me bossing her around or telling her she wasn’t doing things the right way (in other words, my way) and her telling me that I wasn’t her mother and she didn’t have to listen to me.

One of the best stories of our childhood sisterly interactions took place on a family summer vacation many many moons ago when I was nearly 12 and she was nearly 10, and our baby brother was a charming little 5-year old fella. We had recently moved to western Canada, and my parents decided that we were going to go on a family camping adventure through the western states and provinces. We had an old AMC Eagle station wagon, beige with wood paneling, and we loaded up that beast of a car with enough gear to last us six weeks- two tents for sleeping, as well as a kitchen tent, water jugs, air mattresses, Coleman stove, flashlights, tarps, ropes, buckets, the works. The station wagon was an oldie but a goodie- second-hand but solid, and surprisingly roomy. The trunk hatch had to be held up with a broomstick, and the five of us and all our gear fit only if everything and everyone was positioned in their rightful place.

We became an incredibly efficient team at setting up camp. Each of us had our assigned tasks. Sarah and I would set up one of the tents while my father set up the other, and my mom would organize all the kitchen gear. Ben would stand there with his hands on his hips filling up the air mattresses with steady stomping on a foot pump. Then water would need to be fetched, clothes lines hung up, tarps spread out, sleeping bags positioned. And we would stay at each site for a few days- in the Mesa Verde National Park, in the Redwoods, in the Rockies- hiking, exploring, chasing squirrels, making friends, building fires. We kept ourselves busy and made many fun memories.

The traveling between these fantastic destinations is where things got a little tricky. This was before the time of iPhones and Discmans and PSPs, so we had to find creative ways of amusing ourselves on the long stretches of driving. Our little brother kept himself busy mainly by coming up with approximately 5762 different verses to “She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes” and us girls counted wildlife, or kept track of how many different state license plates we saw, or played one of those games where you have to list off things you find in the fridge or names of cities, working our way from A-Z; you know- apples, butter, cabbage, dinner….

But sometimes we got bored, and boredom led to irritability, which led to poking and face-pulling and button-pushing and eventually the classic

  “Mom, she touched me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. You’re such a liar.”

  “But you were on my side.”
  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were.”

Sound familiar? This type of back and forth bickering obviously occurred several times throughout our six-week adventure, despite my brother often being placed as a buffer in the middle, or bribery from my parents who occasionally offered a quarter to whoever could be the quietest the longest. On one particular occasion, however, our fighting got to the point of ridiculousness. And if I remember correctly, what happened is this:

We were driving through the mountains on a difficult stretch of twisty, turny road that required my father to concentrate more than usual on his driving. We, of course, were incredibly distracting with our “She touched me” and “Stop it! Stop it!” My father asked my mother to deal with it, and she turned to scold us with a stern face, raised voice and wagging finger. Our ridiculousness continued. Then there was the famous and familiar blind back seat hand swat. You know what I am talking about- dad is driving and can’t turn to look at us, so he reaches his right hand back, flapping and slapping with a loud and firm “Enough!”

We didn’t stop.

So he did. He yanked the car over to the side of the road, threw on the emergency lights and told the two of us to get out of the car. Now. We scrambled out of the car, obedient but scared to death. Our father was a very creative disciplinarian so we had no clue what awaited us- garbage-picking, essay-writing, acorn-collecting, forced foster care? Who knew! We stood there at the side of the road with cars whizzing by, Sarah most likely with a stoic or defiant face, me- I am guessing- with a quivering lip, trying not to cry.

My father, red-faced, pacing, furious, grabbed two sticks and placed one in each of our hands.

  “There you go,” he said. “Do it. If you hate each other so much, kill each other. Get it over with.”

We stood there, frozen and confused, each limply holding the stick in our hand.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Go. Do it.”

I think I was the first to speak (I am usually the first to speak). “But I don’t want to kill her.”

  “Why not? You obviously hate her. You can’t stop fighting. Why not?”

  “Becau-au-ause,” I stuttered through hysterical sobbing.

  “Because why?”

  “Because...because....because….I LOVE HER.”

  “And you, Sarah?”

  “I love her too,” she mumbled.

  “If you both love each other, why are you fighting ALL the time?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Shrugged shoulders and shaking heads. More hiccups and sniffles and sobs.

  “Then that’s it. Enough. No more fighting. In fact, I don’t want to hear a word out of either of you for the next half hour. Silence. Now, get in the car.”

We remained dazed and confused, sticks still in hand.

  “I said, get in the car. Go, go, go.”

We stumbled our way back into the car, aided by a little shove from our father. Once in the car, Sarah sheepishly spoke up. 

  “Dad?”

  “I said, no talking.”
  “But Dad….”

  “No. Quiet.”

  “Please. It’s important.”

  “It can wait. Half an hour. Complete silence.”

Once a half hour had passed and our sobbing had stopped and the tension had lifted, Sarah dared to speak up once again.

  “Dad,” she tried, “Can I talk now?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Well, you know when we got back into the car back there?”

  “Yes.”
  “Um, one of my shoes fell off when I was getting in. I lost my shoe. I only have one shoe now.”

Next stop: a slight detour to get One Shoe Sarah a new pair.

The Last Sigh of Summer

I am an eternal optimist, or perhaps just a master of denial, which is why it has taken me until mid-October to realize the now undeniable truth.

Summer is over.

Even though “fall” started several weeks ago, with the beginning of the school year and its accompanying early mornings and daily routines, the spirit of summer lingered deep into the late September air. The transition to shorter days and cooler nights was made a touch easier by several gloriously sunny weekends that invited us to play outside, and a few evenings still fair enough to sit on a riverside terrace sipping a white beer. And each time we enjoyed one of these bursts of unexpected warmth, it was a gift intensely enjoyed, a moment that could not be passed up, as if there was this urgency that time was running out, that soon enough all this summerness would dry up and disappear.

While yesterday was another one of these unexpectedly warm days, the truth is that a few days ago, I caught a glimpse of frost on my bathroom window, and last week, I saw my breath on my early morning ride to school. I felt that all too familiar shiver up my spine brought on by a cold that I am certain is here to stay, and I realized I had no choice but to stop layering sweaters and scarves and raincoat shells and start wearing my official autumn jacket.

I will admit that, as I pulled that coat off of its hanger, and wrapped myself in a scarf, I stomped my feet a little and threw a tiny, private tantrum. With flailed arms and furrowed eyebrows, I declared for all the world to hear,  “But I don’t want summer to end. I’m not ready.”

And I didn’t want it to end because it was probably the most perfect summer I can remember. Truly, the best summer ever! I unintentionally adopted the role these last few months of a “hedonist in training”. My summers of the past have always been full and often fantastic, but they have usually been marked by an intentional flavour- things to do, people to see, places to go. Go go go. This, however, was the summer of la dolce far niente, of waking up whenever and doing whatever, just wondering and wandering. Even though I did a little bit of work, tutoring students a few hours a week, the rest of my time was filled to overflowing with afternoon naps in the sun, picnics in the park, barbeques, day trips, late late late nights, tipsy giggling, dancing and dancing and more dancing, moonlit skinny dipping, beautiful new friendships, strengthened relationships with faithful friends and family, interesting conversation with strangers, parties, sleepovers, spontaneity, epiphanies, adventures, pleasure, pleasure, and more pleasure.

Pure bliss.

Pursuing happiness and enjoying life are newly adopted values of mine. For most of my life, my decisions about how to spend my time have been largely rooted in very purposeful values such as being productive, making a difference, contributing to society, bettering myself, being good, seeking balance. While these values have merit and remain important to me, they can be awfully weighty when implemented on a full-time basis. Living deliberately always, with these values as the guide, can sometimes be overwhelming, even exhausting. It was nice to step away from all that for a little while and instead practice the art of simply enjoying life. Limburg is a good place to do that- genieten van het leven, or enjoying life, is a strong cultural value here.

All that to say that while I think I may have aged a little from this summer, and I doubt I will ever fully recover from the sleep deprivation I experienced, it was all well worth it!

The interesting thing is that in spite of not being intentionally in pursuit of becoming a better me, of learning important lessons, of growing, I still exit these summer months with a beautiful collection of truths. I enter the fall changed, healthier, happier, ready-er. 

So now, for a short little reflection on the summer: my realizations, lessons learned, epiphanies, and general observations….

1. I consistently overpack. Whether it’s a weekend getaway or a two-week camping trip, I inevitably bring twice as much as I need. What can I say? I dress according to mood, I like to keep my options open, and I want to be ready for any occasion- the possibility (however unlikely) of wanting to go for an early morning run, the chance of meeting a charming new gentleman friend desperate to take me to dinner, tea with the queen, a wedding, a funeral. I mean, you never know, right? I used to feel a bit of holiday shame about my tendencies towards overpacking, as real travelers know how to keep it simple, but now I figure that as long as I’m strong enough to carry my own suitcase, then, well, whatever.

2. Good friends tell you when you have a mile-long chin hair that is only visible in the bright afternoon sun. Really good friends grab a pair of tweezers and yank it out for you.

3. I fall in love easily and frequently. While in Naxos, I pretty much fell in love with someone new each and every day. I fell in love with the boys at the Waffle House who provided me with unparalleled ice cream pleasure almost each night after dinner. I fell in love with Petros, the short, stocky, bald jewellery maker, partially because he gave me a “discount” on earrings simply because they looked so fabulous on me (yes, I am choosing to believe he doesn’t say that to all the girls), but mainly because he was so proud of his family’s work and passionate about his craft. I fell in love with the man who sold me peaches at the market. And I almost fell in love with the waiter who said, “Let me order for you. Trust me.” Then, in Norway, I experienced a brief but significant crush on the adorable young baker who sold me freshly baked sourdough bread. 

And while there are a number of gentlemen here who give me a flutter in my belly simply because of their charming smile or way with words or hearty laugh, the truth is that if I am to look for a theme among my crushes, it seems that what pulls me in is often committed and passionate artistry. Now, I have long sworn off- by order of close friends and family- artists and musicians, as I seem to be a sucker for wanting to nurture their potential, and coax their misunderstood souls to a place of productivity. But there is something very different between an artist and an artisan. I suppose I am just impressed and inspired by someone who devotes so much time and energy into perfecting their craft. Also, it is quite possible that I am a hybrid between a man and a magpie- the way to my heart appears to be by feeding me delicious food or offering me things that are shiny and pretty.

4. Norwegian men seem to have exceptionally large heads (except, of course, for that adorable baker). An odd observation, I realize, but I am not the only one who noticed!!

5. One possible explanation for the Greek economic crisis could be the fact that a trip to the emergency room, which involved a doctor consult, a full battery of blood tests, at least three throwaway puke trays, and several bags of various IV fluids, cost only a whopping 39 euros and 70 cents.

6. Dinnertime discussions in Greece led us to the proposal that one potential means of rectifying the country’s economic crisis could involve bringing a lawsuit against all those who falsely advertise their yogourt as “Greek-style.” Absolutely nothing, after all, compares with the real deal.

7. One of the most significant lessons of the summer was learning how to externally attribute the behaviour of others. For most of my life, I have made other people’s behaviour about me, believing that if they didn’t like me, it must be because there is something wrong with me, something I need to adjust, and if they were moody or angry or distant or rude, then- obviously- it must have been provoked by something I had done. I finally figured out this summer that the actions and reactions of the people around me have surprisingly little to do with me. I am not that important. Go figure! This, of course, proved to be most significant in terms of how I interact with men. Being able to not take rejection or a lack of interest or mixed messages personally, realizing that a guy’s response to me is a combination of a whole host of factors- his own patterns, history, issues, values, boundaries- helped put things into perspective, and allowed me to feel significantly better about myself. I suppose what this really means is that one of the final pieces in my healing puzzle- a healthy and solid sense of self, defined by ME, and nurtured by those who know me and love me- has at long last securely fit into place.

8. This also means that my desperate desire to be the favourite and the best, liked by everyone, hated by none, has largely dissipated. Before, if someone didn’t like me, I struggled to adjust myself and my behaviour in order to accommodate them, in order to make them like me. What do I need to do, I would wonder, to make you want to be my friend- sing, dance, juggle, tell jokes, cook you dinner, give you a back rub, ask more questions, laugh more, laugh less, talk more, talk less, dye my hair, speak Pig Latin, invent a secret handshake? I realize that this concern with others liking me is more than a bit ridiculous and seems to be the struggle of a fourteen year old girl, not a 34 year old woman. This is something I should have overcome long long long ago, but this delayed development can be attributed, I think, to the struggle of solidifying a scattered sense of self, one of the most significant and enduring leftovers of heartache and broken relationship. What a giant relief it is to know that I no longer need to allow every opinion of every person I encounter to impact my value judgments about my choices and my character. I am strong enough now to determine whose opinions to consider and whose to toss aside.

9. Part of my often baffled reaction to someone being lukewarm towards me is connected to the interesting truth that I do actually generally like most people. For some reason, it is relatively easy for me to see the good in others, to recognize their potential, and to understand the human disconnect between intention and reality. I make great efforts to give others the benefit of the doubt, and I tend to offer many chances for people to make another first impression. I feel uncomfortable with the idea of disliking someone. This is just how I am built, I suppose, but it might also have to do with being the daughter of a pastor, as it was often my task in church to befriend the new kid, whether or not we felt an instant click. And when I encounter someone and don’t feel that click, I am desperate to give it another go, desperate to overcome the guilt I feel for not wanting to get to know them better. Sometimes, in this very counterintuitive way, I often even try harder to make it work, overcompensating with invitations and attention, all in the spirit of a second chance at finding the elusive click, which really is unnecessary and kind of ridiculous.

While I can’t say I have become significantly better at being okay with disliking people, I did learn something very very important this summer, which is that it actually isn’t necessary to evaluate every person I meet and place them in the category of “like” or “dislike.” Apparently, what many people do- and I am giving this a try- is simply have a neutral reaction to a new acquaintance. It is possible to meet someone and leave it at that, without the need to determine if they are good or bad, whether I like them or I don’t like them, whether they will be my new BFF or the enemy I gossip about. They can just float around in this neutral category, free of opinion or judgment. What a concept! Again, what a relief to be free from not only trying to like everyone, but of even having to go through the evaluative process. This makes things significantly simpler.

10. The best way to build relationship, to make memories, to heal hearts, to learn the truth, to have a laugh, is to leisurely share a meal together. Food connects people. Food and wine solidifies the connection. Food and wine and music bonds people for life.

And finally….

11. I am simply a better human being when the sun is shining and there is a glass of wine in my hand.

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