December 24, 3009
I have saved this for a long time, always struck by the last paragraph. A lot of it is pretty dramatic but that last paragraph seemed to stick.
I am glad that Karen is feeling better. Now I can hit her.
Siblings-A Sense of Connection
Anna Quindlen
I don't understand how people learn to live in the world if they haven't had siblings. Everything I learned about negotiation, territoriality, coexistence, dislike, inbred differences and love despite knowledge I learned from my four younger siblings: Bob, Mike, Kevin and Theresa.
In some essential way, they were my universe, even more than my parents. For while we costume ourselves for our mothers and fathers, pretend to be what they want or strike a pose as that which they most abhor, we let down our guard for our siblings day after day, year after year, without thinking about it much. We share with them real life.
"They're all you'll have some day," my mother used to say when we would bicker, fight or strike one another, as we did with some frequency. I always thought there was something pathetic about the way she'd say that, as though our siblings would be the sad leftovers on the plate of life, scraps of fat, puddles of congealed gravy.
But as I say to my own three children now-and I do, I do, almost despite myself-I realize that she meant something quite different. And I remember what I felt deep in my bones when I was pregnant with my third child, that she was an extraordinarily lucky person, not because she would have my husband and me as parents but because we had had the foresight to provide her with these two brothers, who, in the natural order of things, would still be part of her life after we were gone.
How difficult it is to fathom, to describe, to deconstruct all this, the common place bonds of blood. There is a sense of connection as powerful as a rope-those chains around the ankles that convicts wear when they're shuttled to and from prison. Lifelong, irreversible, accidental connection is like that. They are me. I am them. I say that now, knowing that some of us have almost nothing to say to one another that doesn't start with the word "remember". I say that knowing that sometimes we have been estranged, angry, uncaring.
"Flesh of my flesh," they say sometimes in the marriage ceremony, but it's just not true. It is not even true of our children who are part us, part someone dear to us, loved by us but not made of what we are made of. But our brothers and sisters: Well, it is all the same clay. That is why we can hit them. That is why we can hate them. That is why we can never really lose them or we have lost our history, our past, a part of ourselves that we cannot do without.
Anna Quindlen
I don't understand how people learn to live in the world if they haven't had siblings. Everything I learned about negotiation, territoriality, coexistence, dislike, inbred differences and love despite knowledge I learned from my four younger siblings: Bob, Mike, Kevin and Theresa.
In some essential way, they were my universe, even more than my parents. For while we costume ourselves for our mothers and fathers, pretend to be what they want or strike a pose as that which they most abhor, we let down our guard for our siblings day after day, year after year, without thinking about it much. We share with them real life.
"They're all you'll have some day," my mother used to say when we would bicker, fight or strike one another, as we did with some frequency. I always thought there was something pathetic about the way she'd say that, as though our siblings would be the sad leftovers on the plate of life, scraps of fat, puddles of congealed gravy.
But as I say to my own three children now-and I do, I do, almost despite myself-I realize that she meant something quite different. And I remember what I felt deep in my bones when I was pregnant with my third child, that she was an extraordinarily lucky person, not because she would have my husband and me as parents but because we had had the foresight to provide her with these two brothers, who, in the natural order of things, would still be part of her life after we were gone.
How difficult it is to fathom, to describe, to deconstruct all this, the common place bonds of blood. There is a sense of connection as powerful as a rope-those chains around the ankles that convicts wear when they're shuttled to and from prison. Lifelong, irreversible, accidental connection is like that. They are me. I am them. I say that now, knowing that some of us have almost nothing to say to one another that doesn't start with the word "remember". I say that knowing that sometimes we have been estranged, angry, uncaring.
"Flesh of my flesh," they say sometimes in the marriage ceremony, but it's just not true. It is not even true of our children who are part us, part someone dear to us, loved by us but not made of what we are made of. But our brothers and sisters: Well, it is all the same clay. That is why we can hit them. That is why we can hate them. That is why we can never really lose them or we have lost our history, our past, a part of ourselves that we cannot do without.
1 comment:
Curious, this is posted for December 24 of 3009.
Although it does make me think of my sibling, and the mother that gave her to me.
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