2019. You Wild Ride.

Dear 2019,

You started with my biggest dreams and my worst fears realized. All within 24 hours. Over January 4th and 5th. Right from the start. I spent the year trying to navigate a new reality. One I was never expecting. 

A boy, now a man, I went to high school with messaged me on January 4th asking how I knew someone. That someone was the wife of a biological grandfather I’ve never met. It turned out that boy, now man, was my first cousin. I went to high school with a first cousin. We graduated together. I grew up not knowing my biological father. One of my biggest fears was falling in love with a brother and not knowing it. Realizing in my 30s that I could have fallen in love with my first cousin wasn’t any better. Except that I didn’t. I’m happy/elated/relieved to report that I never crushed on this boy, now man, whom I found out at the beginning of 2019 was my first cousin. Phew. 

And this now-man’s dad was my half uncle. We, my new uncle and I, took a DNA test in my living room later in January to prove we were related. I haven’t finished sorting through how strange that is. That my family lines are so royally effed-up that a woman in her mid 30s and a man in his 60s have to take a DNA test in the said woman’s living room to figure out if they belong to the same family tree. 

Positive, yo. Undeniable. We are related. This man is my biological father’s half brother. His father is my paternal biological grandfather. And I have never met this biological grandfather.

My biological father grew up not knowing his biological father. A few years ago, my paternal grandfather’s family contacted me through my blog hoping that they had finally found a link to my biological father. They had. And my biological father met HIS biological father in that same year. I thought that was the end of it. I thought it was a happy ending. 

But 2019 happened. After my new cousin reached out to me, I reached out to my biological father letting him know he had an older half brother. I was met with rejection and denial. My biological grandfather, for whatever reason, didn’t want anything to do with his eldest son. Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him because he failed to mention him and his first wife to his current wife and family. He has had three families, that I know of. My new uncle from his first wife, my father from his second wife, and a whole lifetime of family from his third wife - whom he has been with for a long time. 

After my paternal biological family found me and my father a few years ago, it seemed so joyous, like they couldn’t wait to meet us. Well.... I have heard nothing from them since they met my father. That feels shitty by itself. And then the fact that I discovered there is a whole other line I didn’t know existed, and that my biological grandfather wants nothing to do with him.... that makes me angry. I’ve spent 2019 working on that anger. And if I’m being honest, that deep sorrow.

I know what it’s like to not have all of the pieces of my family. It’s hard. The search becomes an obsession. I don’t know how to describe the disappointment that anyone would deny someone their family. I have longed for these people. I have dreamt of them. And they’re over here saying, “Too bad. We have each other; we don’t need you.” 2019 has been coming to terms with all of this. 

But that’s not all.

When I called my biological father on January 4th to let him know he had an older half brother, he accidentally let me know I had an older half sister. I cannot tell you how much I have fixated throughout the course of my life that I might have some biological siblings. I have step-siblings that I love, but I always felt there was something different about being linked to a sibling by blood. A sister.

A SISTER!

I had a biological connection to a sibling. Through the magic of Facebook, I found her. Literally overnight. And in less than 24 hours, many of my hopes were dashed. I have a biological half sister, and I connected with her, but I quickly realized that any kind of relationship with her would be really, REALLY complicated. 

And then the anger seeped in even more. And I confirmed how much more hurtful withholding can be. I have always trusted my biological father. I gave him grace where I thought he deserved it. I gave him grace everywhere. But he had known that I had a sister for a long time. Years. And he didn’t tell me. And because of the nature of his short-term memory, I have asked him repeatedly. And he always said no. Until this year. I don’t know how to trust someone who withholds the thing I desire most. 

And then...

In July my paternal grandmother died. She choked on an apple. An effing apple. I’ve never met any of her family. Only her son, my father. I have so desperately wanted to meet all of them, but her death created a feud. It’s hard when your one connection to a whole branch of your family tree lives in conflict with the family. I don’t know if I will ever meet the rest of my biological father’s maternal side. I have an aunt. My paternal grandmother still has living siblings. I have 13 cousins on my biological father’s paternal side. 14 with my new cousin, whom that line refuses to acknowledge. 

2019 brought so many lessons that I might spend my whole life figuring out. But I hope that 2020 might bring more connection. Being that my familial connections are so fragile on my father’s side, I’m trying to make peace with what might not ever be. I also understand how fragile life is. How quickly time can run out. I don’t want it to run out. But I also can’t help who is ready and who cannot accept that I am here. And I am related. That I am family, no matter how unexpected. 

2020 will be a year of radical love and acceptance. For myself. There can be no more biological family surprises. Unless my paternal biological grandfather has more children out there, or my biological father the same. I lived in 2017 and 18 feeling like I had a happy ending. I entered 2019 realizing nothing is for certain. 

But that’s just it. I can’t control anyone else to make their love or acceptance certain.

But I have made my own spectacular family. And I am so full of love for these daughters that are mine. These biological connections. These children I will never deny and always love to the utmost. This is my calling. This is my family. And 2019 has also taught me how to lean into that. Lean into them. 

My loves. Forever and ever. 

2020.

I’m glad to see you. We made it. Through so many losses. Through so much love. 

Love.

I choose love.

Everyday. In every way. Over and over and over again. 2019 taught me how to do so more fully. The hardest year of my life. Hands down. 

The best year of my life just the same.

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Things I want to Remember

December 24, 2019
Cora wanted to wander around the Holdenville Cemetery to find name inspiration for her writing. We did. And Magnolia wanted to find the person who had the earliest birthday. 1820s, so far. That’s what we’re back to. I loved wandering through the names and stories with them. And there among all of the names were names of people we know and love. Some we never got to love in life, but we so appreciate that we are here because they were here.

December 27, 2019
The fog was so thick as we drove from Oklahoma City to Dalhart, TX. White knuckle driving. Low visibility. Terrible. And intermittent rain. I hated it. And I couldn’t get Alisa’s accident out of my head. We were rolling on state highways through Texas and Oklahoma. So many intersections have two way stops. The low visibility at those intersections almost made me want to cry. My eyes darted back and forth so many times making sure the intersection was clear. We were so cautious. So many little prayers along the way. And waiting for us in Dalhart were Loved Ones. Meeting little Oliver, who turns 1 tomorrow, actually TODAY - it’s after midnight - was a highlight. And late night conversations with the brothers-in-law were so wonderful and long overdue. Five hours of fog and rain and staring at the temperature to make sure it was staying above freezing... 36 was the lowest dip. All worth it for the togetherness we experienced this evening.

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Stepping Into the Light

Yesterday was the funeral of a friend who died suddenly in a car accident earlier in the week.

Her death was absolutely unexpected. Unexpected deaths have an extra layer - dealing with the shock. It requires an extra amount of time to reason with your mind that a person you love isn't there because you hadn't ever considered that they wouldn't be. Not now, anyway. Not yet. 

Alisa and I were newer friends. I met her at a mutual friend's fortieth birthday party. We knew so many of the same people as part of the Mormon Church, yet we had never met one another, even with all of my time living in Oklahoma before the most recent move back. We covered a lot of ground that night: children, birth, divorce, marriage, religion, etc. Over the last year and some change, we stayed connected on social media, through texts and, within the last couple of months, some in-person conversations and events together. I valued our blossoming friendship.

Her life, her very being, exuded love and light. I am terrible at small talk, so it was wonderful to have someone with whom I could skip most of that and dive straight into vulnerability. She asked good questions and kept an open mind and heart for the answers that might come. The point at which I met her was a time of immense learning and growth for her. A year before I met her, the familiarity of her life had been interrupted. She was on her own journey of discovery. Meeting her on that path was inspiring to me. Despite the difficulties she faced, and any fear of the unknown in what lay ahead for her (this path was terribly difficult sometimes), she had a warmth that was enveloping. And I think that warmth and love and light became bigger and brighter and warmer with each faithful step she took.

Last month, Alisa and I attended a program sponsored by the Jewish Federation of Oklahoma City. Rabbi Steve Leder was there discussing his book More Beautiful Than Before: How Suffering Transforms us. I got two tickets last minute from another friend. When thinking about who I should take with me, Alisa came to mind. I was glad she was available. She came to my house, and we drove to the event together. The program was a profound look at pain, suffering, and grief. We were both writing away taking notes. Afterward we sat in the theatre and talked, then continued talking on the ride home, and didn't stop talking for quite some time after I pulled into my driveway. 

A new angle on grief that we both appreciated is the idea that grief is nonlinear. Leder said that every once in a while we are hit with a rogue wave of grief. And when that wave comes, it's best to lay down and float with it. Trying to stand up against it will only send you crashing and rolling; it will topple you. Grief doesn't follow a straight line. It can feel less enshrouding over time, but it doesn't mean it won't come back into your company and desperately require your attention from time to time. There is no timeline. Leder made a distinction about something those who are grieving often hear. He said it is a lie to say "It won't always hurt so much." But a more accurate telling of grief is that "It won't always hurt so often." 

Leder said much about light that night as well. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 

He emphasized through. We walk through the valley of the shadow of death. We don't stay there. And a shadow is always evidence of light. A shadow cannot exist without light. At some point, as we keep moving, we will emerge back into light. The light that was there the whole time. Blocked by a valley. Blocked by our suffering, our sorrow. Our grief. 

I was thinking about light yesterday as so many came to love and celebrate and grieve together. I left the church at dusk and made it back into my home in darkness. The shortest day of the year. The week of Alisa's death has been a descent through emotional and literal darkness as we crept toward winter solstice. I have developed a fondness for that day. Developed is the key word. I used to be so resistant toward extended darkness. I love the sun; I feel the effects of less light. And in that sensitivity to both darkness and light, I made a pact. "Okay, Darkness, you can have your day, but tomorrow we start moving back toward the light." 

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Sunday Drive

I've been taking Cora on night drives. We leave when there is still light in the sky, but not too long before the "mosquito threat" is finally gone so we can drive all over with the windows down, the sunroof open [more appropriately the "moonroof" for our time of day], and music blasting. The air conditioning blasting too. She has started taking more photos on these drives. Tonight she took 40.

We went through downtown and kept driving. Across the river. Into Capitol Hill.

I used to love taking Cora to the Capitol Hill Library when she was little. I would often reserve my books there just to go to that district. So close to downtown, but a world away. There has been more development south of downtown, so it doesn't feel quite as distant anymore.

The "Main Street" area is quaint is a throwback (SW 25th Street). A language other than English adorns the signage. Mount Saint Mary stands so proud. I believe it's the oldest school building still standing in Oklahoma City.

(Mount Saint Mary School, 1903)

After spending a bit of time driving through familiar places in Capitol Hill, we went east to see what the diagonal inverse of our neighborhood would be in the city. Diagonal inverse - there's probably a better world. If I had a square piece of paper and folded it in half where the top left corner met the bottom right corner, my neighborhood and its diagonal inverse would be the two new points that touch. Same number address, different direction for the street. Our diagonal inverse is an industrial area, but there's a hill with a great view of downtown. I had never seen it from this point. Our view of downtown is much more crowded with trees and rooftops; we can only see the Devon Tower from Joan.

(Downtown OKC from our neighborhood's "diagonal inverse")

Our night drives have few exchanged words, but meaningful shared experiences. I appreciate this phase of our relationship, and I hope it's a tiny glimpse into what our relationship might look like at various points throughout our [someday] shared adulthood. It's comfortable and familiar. It's refreshing and peaceful. I love exploring, so does Cora. I'm looking forward to many more night drives with her.

Tonight, after seeing downtown from a completely different angle, I am reminded that there is still plenty to discover in my very own small city.

(I've seen this view many times, but it's one of my favorites.)

[All photos by Cora]

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I don’t know what to do with all the love I have left for her.

I drove over 4,000 miles to find my cry. And I finally did while watching an unexpected BBC dark comedy tonight when the main character said, “I don’t know what to do with all of the love I have left for her.” Yes. That’s it. I don’t know what to do with all of the love I have left for her.

Life, you are so funny sometimes. But I love you anyway. An apple. My greatest hope and my biggest fear. An apple. God is throwing up his royal flush.

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Good Goodbyes

This memory greeted me this morning. I was first caught by the timeline: two years ago. So much can change so quickly. Just two years ago, I was still living in Los Angeles, and so grateful for the close proximity to Grammy who was living in Fresno. In the photo, I was visiting right after she came home from the hospital after having surgery for a bowel obstruction. Leading up to the surgery, she wasn't sure if she wanted to do anything about it - that she might as well take this as her exit ticket. 

And then she changed her mind. It was a rollercoaster of emotion. Quickly coming to terms with the end of her life and then finding hope for what healing might look like. The surgery went well, but recovery was rough; her incision wouldn't heal. 

It was after this surgery and the complicated recovery that it was decided she would need more round the clock care than my aunts could provide. They found a care center in a private home in Queen Creek, AZ and moved her there. 

Later the same year, she died. 

Before the bowel obstruction, there had been worries about her heart. Another close call. Another coming to terms with the fact that her life was ending, only to find that it wasn't going to be an abrupt ending. 

Seeing this photo is a reminder of the blessing of good goodbyes. I got a lot of saying goodbye practice in with her. Being "at death's door" a few times helped take away some of the shock when the real goodbye came. It was like really emotionally high stakes role-playing. Her transition from life, in the end, was swift, less than a week. But my opportunity to emotionally transition took years leading up to her death. And that isn't to say that grief did not ensue. It did. It does. 

But seeing her decline over the years made me grateful for death when it came for her. Not grateful for me, but grateful for her. Gratitude for her at her passing was simultaneously felt in my own grief at her loss. 

Even in grief, gratitude exists for the good goodbye. She felt terrible during this visit. Her children had all gathered because we really thought it was the end. She couldn't move because of her incision, so required someone to do everything for her. There was a moment where she looked me in the eyes, and I could tell how devastated her pride was at her physical state. Moments like that made it easier to say goodbye - to send her on her way out of physical suffering and a kind of dependency for living that she was not used to. 

And even after this time, there were rebounds. Realigned expectations about what her life looked like. She found Leo at her new home in Arizona. She found comfort and purpose in being present with other residents. She adjusted, she adapted, she went out on an emotional high note. She was able to say a good goodbye as well.

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So much here. Now. Honest conversations with kids. Honest conversations with self.

Cora has been on a tidying kick. I need another tidying kick. It feels so good to get rid of stuff, but I have not yet mastered the art of not consuming more after making a life of less. 

The photo is part of her personal reading collection. She LOVES to read. She devours books, sometimes staying up until the wee hours of the morning to finish one. I can’t even be mad about it. I am so in love with her love of reading and learning and imagining and dreaming and doing. She amazes me. All the time. I have felt so defensive of her. Part of me is not proud of that. I’ve worked as her speech translator for years. I have worried and cried and prayed that this girl with so many big ideas would be able to communicate them in a way that she felt comfortably understood. Sometimes we still work on this. Her mind works faster than her mouth can keep up. 

Tonight we talked about so many things. It started with decluttering. It ended with sweet proclamations of love. I don’t have enough of these conversations with her. Tonight reminded me of that. She is ready. There is so much for us to talk about. 

The part that really caught me was an honest discussion about screen time. I told her that my latest phone update gave me a screen time tracking bit. And after my first week with this new notification for screen time, I am completely mortified of my daily average. 

She welcomed the discussion and said something that struck me to the core: “When you were kids, you could do whatever you wanted, you could ride your bike anywhere. Now, we’re just turning into lifeless zombies.” She got emotional when she was saying this. She felt it so deeply. 

I felt it deeply.

We are in such a transitionary period. We’re learning how to personally deal with and how to raise children with technology in real time. Things are changing so quickly. I have a love-hate relationship with my phone. I am part of the last generation who knows what childhood/adolescence was like before social media. 

I want nothing more than long days of boredom and just figuring out how to fill time - I want the time period of my childhood for my children. But the change happened so quickly; I know they can’t even comprehend. 

I told her that Jake and I were in the middle of thinking through hard things. We LOVE our neighbors, and we LOVE our home, but I would NEVER feel safe allowing our girls to ride their bikes solo to our neighborhood park. I don’t want to live in a homogenous neighborhood. I don’t want to be in a place where everyone is the same, but I also don’t want to be followed by mentally unstable men yelling inappropriate things at me while I’m walking with my daughter. 

I don’t want to be afraid of people. I’m trying to practice what I preach. I’m trying to lean into a life of really loving people, not just giving lip service to loving. And then unstable people follow me and stray dogs chase me. And I’m like WTF universe, I’m trying so hard here!!!! Take away my fear, take away my fear, take away my fear! I ABHOR gated communities. Truly, I do. But I also find myself longing for them because of how freaking terrified I am of raising daughters in this world sometimes. I know how dangerous it can be. 

I know from personal experiences as a child, as a young teenager, and as a 30+ year old woman. This world can be terrifying for girls, teenagers, young women, and women of any age. Terrifying. Shaming. Defiling. I know it can be the same for males all along the age spectrum as well, but for women.... Over and over and over again throughout their lives. 

I can’t articulate this to my ten year old. I won’t. But our conversation tonight was so free and so honest. I fell in love with her all over again. 

I need to do better. I need to be more engaged with my real life and less engaged with a screen. I want to be more engaged with my real life and less engaged with a screen. But how? I’m saying all of this as I type these words into the Notes app on my phone. I need figure out how to give more freedom to my daughters without feeling irresponsible. 

I want to be a leader in a world with more love. Sometimes love is even more terrifying than fear. I am acknowledging that here. But my daughter feels like she and her peers are lifeless zombies. I DO NOT want that for her or them. 

I am pronouncing my desire to be fully present, and also acknowledging that it is really hard sometimes. 

I am also acknowledging that the deepest desire of my heart is to create and live a life with my Dearest Ones. I DO NOT want my children to be addicted to screens. I want them to be addicted to the earth and experiences, and people. I want this for myself as well. 

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Some Days

Some days, you get a message from a person you went to high school with asking if you know a certain person. And sometimes your response is, “Yes, he’s my biological grandfather whom I’ve never met.”

And his response is, “He’s my biological grandpa too.”

And you’re like “Holy Expletive!” And all of a sudden you have another cousin and uncle.

And then you call your biological father to tell him he has an older brother who wants to get in touch. And during that conversation your father starts talking about this other daughter, and you think he’s talking in hypotheticals, but your brain starts wondering, and you’re like “Wait, you have another daughter?”

And he’s like, “Yes.”

And you think, “Holy Expletive!” But you say, “So I have a sister?!”

And in the same phone call you are telling your dad that he has another brother, he’s telling you that you have a sister.

Wow.

PS: I’m relieved I never crushed on the boy in high school who was my first cousin all along.

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