We Thought We Were Late, But We’re Right On Time

On shifting roles in sisterhood, embracing silence and remembering (again) that growth is never-ever-ending…

“Did I just scream it’s getting a little too patriarchal in my head as Miranda July walked by?!”

That was my sister in Washington Square park in what felt like the episode of Broad City where the protagonists trip on shrooms in New York —two women, hilarious to only themselves, spilling over each other with giggles at all the strange summer sights that make this city so hard to hate, even on the most soupy of days.

We were engaging in a little cosmic therapy, and the universe rewarded us. Try it sometime: squint at the stars and consider how small you are. Maybe a beloved celebrity will just stroll on by as you do.

Maybe it will even be a celebrity whom once demanded multiple reads of her short story collection, that hilarious and poignant and sad one with the bright yellow cover.

Maybe even the love for the celebrity was shared between sisters in a very embodied way.

Maybe even the little sister read said stories aloud to the big sister just for the sheer joy and pleasure of hearing the words take the air, of making her laugh, even though she had just finished the book herself.

Try it sometime: tell someone you love the truth without the dust of sugar.

Massaged by weed so legal we purchased it just like that at a shop on the street, my sister said, part of the dynamic is just that you are the big sister, and sometimes you cannot provide for me what I provide for you (a non judgmental space, big sisters are PROTECTIVE, and plus we’ve lived a little longer, which makes us —often erroneously — fancy ourselves wiser).

But also — many many people in this world are not lucky enough to be loved the way you love me.

Boom, how that hit.

What is this kind of love?

Once I told The Jazz I loved him more than anyone and he smiled, then he paused. Wait, he said, that can’t be true: your sister.

Being a sister, one can feel perpetually seen, which is beautiful, but also, on the flip side: exposed. Unable to hide! All your asshole qualities on full display! I know you better than anyone, I would argue, my sister says, and I can’t deny that it is unequivocally true.

But sometimes you want to keep something for yourself, and that is a tip that sisters must learn and grow into.

It’s harder than it sounds.

What is the secret pet name my friend calls herself that no one knows not even her wife, not even her children? I want to know it as soon as she tells me this.

Why do I want to come up with my own and immediately tell you right here right now?

Big sister energy is rill cool, bigtime loving energy but the identity also requires an audience of a little sister, literal or metaphoric.

This season of my life I am aiming to be less of a big sister for the sake of us all.

The moment is calling for me to renegotiate my roles. As you might have guessed by now, I have a hard time keeping myself to myself. It’s a gift and a curse. If you share too vigorously, as I am known to, you might catch a hater in your baseball mitt if you know what I’m sayin’.

One of the many consequences of my interest in talking talking talking has also meant that I’ve wanted to know the people in my life on very vulnerable levels. If the conversation skates the surface too long, I tend to drift, or get frustrated.

And thus, I’ve spent many years asking people to adventure into the dankest basement of their lives — (they were doing it anyway, I told myself and in my defense, it was often true, but I made myself available as witness, fixer, saver, and a whole host of other miserable roles.)

Now I just want to make people laugh. Comedy is divine intelligence. Worship at the feet of the clown.

But, sigh. Even that is overly simplified.

I wrote a poem called “Making Up With My Sister” and read it to my cousin last week, who is also the big sister in a duo of sisters, just like me and mine, same last name and everything. In response, her tears came gentle and sweeping, sitting on a bench so near where my sister and I sat the week before, in the very same park, having our eerily similar revelations.

Roles, modes, past patterns, they can be broken with work, I am reminded.

But ouch. It hurts sometimes.

Can you reconcile the various sides of yourself, my therapist asked?

Let’s try, she said.

Hey. I’m game.

One can heal in silence. Perhaps one SHOULD heal in silence.

This is a new idea for me. At the dinner table, we used to over-process everything. I was raised to be really good at talking, so good, in fact, that I can fool myself with my own words if I’m not careful. I know how to bend any circumstance to my will quite convincingly, until I am faced with someone who matches me and sees through my bullshit.

More and more of these people are in my life as I age. Probably because our bullshit detectors are all being tuned up, and we are less afraid to tell the truth to one another.

Now, lately that is, I talk far less than I used to. Or, it would be more accurate to say, I move in cycles. And when I am in a quieter cycle, what a marked difference! I want to extend the cycle longer and longer. I feel the positive impact of my energy hovering closer to my being. It is good. Keep it in the aural radius.

But how?

Two hours pedaling by the river helps. Chanting and singing and twisting my body helps. I’ve found a soft place to land every day after work where I melt into that cosmic release and become one, or try to, with every molecule that ever was. I read a suggestion to have silent dates with loved ones —what a beautiful idea.

Into the inner silence I go.

Sunday night, I lit two candles at the altar. It had been so long.

I’ve missed you, mom: the first thought in my head.

One of the two flames kept growing taller, as if it was straightening it’s back against the air, glowing very bright.

Every time my mind wandered to a self destructive thought, I swear to you, the candle sparked.

It happened again and again.

Sometimes I forget that life is about growth. I think there is a destination to reach and I’ll be all good. One day, one day soon, I hope.

Of course, I don’t really think this, but it is a very seductive delusion.

If you’re like me, I’ll leave you with this phrase that I can’t stop thinking:

We thought we were late, but we’re right on time!