Sisters

With hindsight, I am lucky to have grown up with three sisters. At the time I was most unhappy about it, too aware of the lack of space, the niggling and fighting, the jostling for attention. As an adult, I am gratefully aware it, grateful for the many nights spent in conversation, the comforting arms around me in times of trouble and laughing, lots of laughing.

We comprised: big sis, momma sis, myself (dreamy sis) and baby sis. Big sis’ moniker was not a reference to her size, but rather her age. Momma sis received her name long, long before she became an actual momma, due to her the momma-like tendencies she had been born with. Baby sis was (unsurprisingly) the youngest and I, dreamy sis, was called so due to a love of being forever mentally absent (though physically present).

Big sis was considerably older than the rest of us, and was thus viewed with a mixture of unadulterated adoration and awe – she was our Goddess. She existed on a pedestal, and has done ever since. At an age where make-up and boys was a world undiscovered, she would horrify me with tales of a future – my future – that would involve boyfriends and marriage. Aghast, I would argue that my beloved red BMX and climbing trees were all that mattered to me, thank you very much.

Big sis left us just as we were approaching adolescence and life was getting more interesting. She disappeared at an age where I didn't realise that people, certainly not those I loved so intensely, actually died. For the three of us that remained, our childhood innocence also died that day.

We were now three sisters, and rather than cling to each other in the madness that followed, we each clung to our own individual rafts to survive: the pain in each others' eyes was too much to witness and our individual memories of her, much too precious to share, were jealously guarded. The fact that we were simultaneously limping into adolescence with its requisite moodiness and confusion only served to emphasize our separation. We drifted apart on those turbulent seas and only drifted back to each other once adulthood had begun to show its face.

Momma sis has never shed her moniker and, I suspect, never will; actual motherhood has only strengthened the endearing ways in which she continues to mother baby sis and I. As the second oldest she heaved the mantle of 'big' sis onto her small shoulders and tried to lead us towards the light and resurrection from grief; though she herself was blind. Taking on the responsibility was not an easy option – her younger siblings looked to her more and more for a replacement of the 'Goddess' they had lost. She struggled, but ultimately succeeded, and perhaps it was ever meant to be so.

The departure of big sis fell hardest on baby sis. They were not on speaking terms at the time, and the chance to repair the bridge of misunderstanding between them (for that was all it was) was lost forever. Regardless of the comforting words from her remaining sisters, she needed to re build the bridge herself single-handedly. It took many years and her courage in finding her own peace at the tragic timing of events was, and still is, an awesome feat.

Now, as remaining sisters all 'growed-up', I truly recognise the blessings of my sisters' presence and pour gratitude upon it (this, despite the niggling and fighting that has never quite managed to leave us). Though her presence is now ethereal, big sis is still very much the first sister in our quadrangle. Though I don't really know what the afterlife has planned for us, I look forward to the day where we are four once again.



Today's favourite song: Mike Oldfield, 'Crime of Passion'

Photograph

I love this photo. Partly because I took it and am proud of it. Partly because the dog belongs to a very good friend. Partly because of what, to me, it represents.

The dog is Cujo. In the photo, he is chasing a red ball that has just been thrown. The same red ball was thrown over and over again but Cujo never tired of watching the ball; racing after the ball; catching the ball; bringing the ball back.

I *loved* the pure joy that shone from his eyes and the furious wagging of his tail. At that moment, nothing, but nothing else mattered to him other than catching that ball.

Such a simple, simple process, but such utter utter joy.

My thoughts turned to another species - us. How often do we do this? How often do we just focus on doing something that gives us pure joy, freeing our minds of every other thought?

Where's our red ball?!!!

Today's favourite (80's) song: Howard Jones, 'New Song'

I Just Don't Get It....or... Finally, She Joins Sunday Scribblings..

Here, at last, is my very first posting for Sunday Scribblings; a website I think is fabulous but that I haven't quite got round to joining yet. For those uninitiated, it is a website where a 'topic' is posted every week upon which to mull over and then produce a piece of writing.

For this week's choice - 'I just don't get it'- I chose a more frivolous interpretation....

I just don't get it..
..Why, oh why, oh why, (dear Lord ;-)) do I seem to incapable of looking after my CDs...?

This seemingly simple puzzle has confounded me for some time. I seem categorically unable to alphebetise, return to their plastic casings, or keep in one place any of my CDs, which although not strictly necessary in life, would make my listening pleasures that little bit easier to locate and play.

Is it because of a neglectful upbringing, where owned objects were not appreciated? Um, that would be a no. The cost and value of items in our household where regularly commented on and any spotted lackadaisacal attitude towards them was instantly reprimanded. My mother's voice commanding... "PUT IT BACK!!" also echoed endlessly through my childhood home whenever my many sisters and I had borrowed an item which she then discovered missing. So nor was the 'rightful place of things' neglected in my education.

Is it because I don't care? No. And I certainly like to think that I have the intelligence to know that a CD left out of its box will become scratched, lost and broken, often in that order... On scouring my small home for a missing CD, and upon finding it under my bed (or under my cat) I sigh heavily as I slowly make my way to the dustbin to dispose of it; quietly mourning the songs that I won't be listening too again in the near future..

Is it because I am so wealthy that I can afford to replace the CDs? That would be another no. CDs are currently an extra that cannot squeeze themselves into my meagre non-working-person budget. They firmly reside on the 'one day when I'm earning again' shopping list... along with most other luxury goods..

Is it because of a reluctance to bring an order to my life? Ah, I think I've hit on something here. There is something so 'settling' so 'succumbing' so well, 'boring' about an ordered CD collection. Somehow the state of my CDs is the mircrocosm of my life. Do I want my life alphebetised, clean and ordered? um... that would be a most definite, resounding, NO..

So actually, when all is said and done... I do get it... ;-)


Today's favourite song: Carlos Vives 'La Gota Fria'