Living The We Of Me: Seeing Ourselves As Two Different People.
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Lately I’ve been wondering how much of me is left. I mean, when I think back, it seems like there have been at least a couple of incarnations in this one lifetime.
I was someone’s kid in the first lifetime, and a sister. In the second lifetime, I was someone’s wife, and mother. How much of me did that use up? By the time I became a wife, did I remember who that girl was? Was I still that person?
Today I’m someone’s mother, someone’s mother-in-law, and someone’s grandmother. What about that kid? Is she still here? Does she know how old we are? Is she observing the relationship challenges, the unreached horizons that float in the mist, just ahead of wherever it is I am? Or is she the one driving me forward?
It’s funny. These days there’s a familiar authenticity inside my skin; is this what she felt then? Or is that dementia? Is that old age? I don’t know. But I can tell you this: I feel more on purpose than I’ve felt since I was five.
Since I was the kid on that swing in the backyard at 1563 North Marion, crying because I couldn’t write a song like the ones on the radio. I don’t cry about that now. Today I’m grown up, and I write songs for a living. Does she know?
When I work on the various projects that keep my passions fired, I feel her here. She sits across the table, smiling at me, her chin resting on one dimpled hand.
I also feel her tears. When my Daddy — our Daddy — died earlier this year, she is the one who cried into my pillow. She’s also the one who took my sister’s face in her hands at the funeral home and told her everything was okay. In many ways I felt like I was watching her do that. I was the observer.
Looking back at that weekend, I realize that the girl of me led us through it with her broken heart wide open, loving everybody as big as she could.
Since then, she and I have hit a rough patch. One where healing and grief keep getting locked in hand-to-hand combat. It leaves me bone-weary, and she’s trying to make sense of it all.
When I lie down and rest my head on the pillow, I feel her there. She keeps watch through the night. Sometimes in that space between awake and asleep, I hear her whisper, “Daddy always believed in us.” The adult of we never thought so. The girl of we always knew.
There are those who would call me daft for seeing us as two different people. Shrinks might tell me to integrate. I reject that clinical diagnosis. The adult mind lives on the surface where life appears steady, things are kept in tidy lines, and all rules apply. But the child mind is boundless; it explores below the surface.
There are times I need to get hopelessly lost in her world of unseen wonder, secret caverns, mighty whirlwinds, and fragments of dreams unlived. This is where the thrill of excitement rides in on a sunbeam, where fragile hearts dive deep, shatter and heal, only to dive deep again.
Not breaking through the surface with her would pose a far greater risk to my spirit. I cannot bear the thought of skimming the top, and never living the we of me at all.
If Daddy can see us, we know he’s proud.
*****
Cece DuBois is a modern-day polymath. She is a writer of prose, verse, and song. She paints portraits, builds furniture, sings, laughs, and prays. She’s a designer — of homes, and wardrobes, and ideas. She’s known a life of being locked in a cage so small that her wings were stunted. But through the past few years she’s broken free, traversed the shattered familial ties, and soared to the higher ground of a healing Spirit. In high school, Sister Edith told her to ‘choose one’ of her many creative talents and discard the rest. Instead, Cece became determined to breathe life into every one, as long as she herself drew breath. Cece lives in Middle Tennessee, but has the heart of a gypsy, and loves the richness that adventures of the creative mind provide. She sees each day as a blessing, and all things as happening for good.
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