One unexpected delight of the coronavirus has been the presence my sister Kelly on our farm this summer. She was en route to Vermont to visit the rest of our family, as her work in the school system allows for seasonal migrations. The painful reality of a worsening global pandemic dashed her plans and she decided to shelter in place with us. In the short weeks she was at the farm, Kelly had already started to grow roots. The seeds she planted emerged and were rapidly growing into toddlers.
Kelly is the youngest sister of three so she has witnessed many aspects of evolving family life through the years. She was dragged to drama rehearsals and played all of our walk-on kid roles—she knew our lines better than we did. She watched our primping rituals for high school dances, interjecting commentary about the people we thought we needed to be as we curled our hair and applied makeup. She schlepped our belongings up flights of stairs to our college dorms, helping us hang tapestries and shelve our new books. She settled us into these new, exciting lives with resignation, keen observation and wry humor.
Our lives seem longer and more brightly-colored when witnessed through the eyes of another, especially someone who has known you your whole life. The stories sisters tell about each other have more grandeur, elicit bigger laughs and usually lack filters. The chapters get right to the point and are brutally honest, like, “The rabbit hole of your first marriage.” As sisters, there are times we have to painfully watch a bad scene play out, while compassionately waiting in the wings wanting to call curtain. There are also times where swift, direct action has been applied to a situation without commentary or questioning as we show up for each other during times of crisis, break ups and break downs, to console what seems inconsolable often with gardening, cooking and music.
There is a deep comfort in a sister’s love and companionship. You are bound by family origin and there is a safety net that you weave together out of silken moments you share from your very first memories. It is strong and magical like a spider’s web, but most of the time you don’t know it’s even there. Then one day something earth shattering happens and you feel the invisible threads holding you, suspended.
When I first moved to the farm early this year I was amazed by how familiar the land felt under my feet, like true home. I was returning to my child self who lived beneath big trees and played in the dirt, had wild places to walk and creeks to swim in. This is where Kelly found me in June and she dug in right alongside me. She picked up the weed whacker without a second thought and started putting things in order, helping me unpack boxes, organize my spice drawer and build my farm nest.
Kelly was here this summer to see me unravel under the weight of caring for plants, soil and all the beings who dwell here, as my bank account shrank and I hustled flowers to fill it back up. She also was by my side when, at 10 years old, I started digging a pond in our backyard for goldfish and frogs, and I think she believed I could do it then (even though a slight divot in the earth is now the only evidence that remains of my efforts.)
We were together when the wounds of early childhood were created, the unconscious patterns etched in us from our parents, and their parents going back to unknown generations of trauma, loss and overcoming. Grounded on the farm under the canopies of giant ash, ancient pear and hackberry trees we began to let go of these old stories. Like the cicadas, who cracked open their exoskeletons, we shed the deeply held beliefs ingrained in us about who we should be. We sorted it out together as we untangled seasons of Bermuda grass roots that had taken over the flower beds, mixed soil for seedlings, made bouquets and scones for the farm CSA members. We planted new seeds together to nourish ourselves, and developed new patterns of self-care by picking herbs for sweet baths, yoga sessions and swimming in the creek. We watched the moon begin as a sliver and grow full three times, each cycle manifesting more of our desires. We spoke them to the trees, and left notes in the dark holes inside the oldest of them for the fairies to bless.
This will be Kelly’s last week with me on the farm. Each day has been an act of faith. This is how planting seeds and following a dream feels. I am still awed by how enormous and green and tangled the plants grow. But dreams, like seeds, do grow, with our care and attention. The sunflowers we planted look like a crowd gathering with fists raised, triumphant. This is how I feel with my sister by my side again.
When the long, hot, full summer days reach an end we sit outside and watch them dissolve, feeling the ache of work inside our bodies. The toads hop around us, and Juju, the dog, sits at our feet. The spiders weave their webs, encircling us in the beautiful, complicated and sometimes heartbreaking cycle of nature. We watch the big dipper grow brighter in the sky between the forked ash tree branches, holding all the moments from the day—the sweat, the joy, the tears, the challenges, the sweetness and the magic. The sparkling effervescence of our shared experience in this time and place spills over us in the now starry darkness.
