Macramé

I’m grateful for universe magic:  That bit of glitter and acrylic paint and photo of glorious flowers and flowers themselves which, out of all the people in all the world, gave me my cousin Andy.  There has been a strong cord, woven in gold tinted macramé, that has connected us my whole life.  It is a cord which, while always – always there, rises every now and again and reminds me of true love.  The kind of true love that is real true love.  Not garden variety.

 The forever-knotted-cousin variety.

 Andy is older than me and that, in a cousin, automatically means he is cool.  Cool in the way promise and possibility is cool.  In the way someone who supports and loves you unconditionally is cool.  Cool in plaid shirts with rolled up sleeves and cool in tennis shoes.  Cool with reddish blonde hair and a toaster oven for a kitchen. 

 I mean, I could go on all day.  He’s pretty damn cool.

 Put differently, he shines.

 Andy is an artist but his creativity, while expressed in visual art, is actually heart-creativity.  Andy listens and cares and tells everyone that everyone else is great.  In fact, if the world were willing to listen to Andy, we would find that we all are actually amazing.  Andy loves people because he sees them as beloved.  And that’s enough for him.  He has just enough of a thread of sarcasm running through him to make me laugh too but, for the most part, he sees you as beloved too.

 Andy shows up for his people.  His creative heart runs wide and it runs deep.  He has made amazing stuff for me:  Posters and flower arrangements and lots of yummy food and a guest bed set with clean sheets.  He has sent cards to me that have made me laugh and cards to me that have made me cry and we’ve eaten more thanksgiving dinners together than I can count. 

 I always try to get the seat next to Andy.

 Andy has trusted me enough to be honest with me and that has made a huge difference in how I’ve been honest with myself. 

 In the spirit of that honesty, now is the time to say I have borrowed a book from Andy and never returned it.  (He may not have, until the very moment, known this bit of information.  It is more likely, however, that he has.  Either way I feel MUCH better!)

 Whenever I leave Andy, book not withstanding, I have the feeling that I’m the very best.  And god, what it feels like to feel like I’m the very best. 

Well, it feels like the magic of the universe.

 I want to tell you all about the art show I saw today that is Andy at his best – as listener, creator, lover of story, dreamer, builder.

I want to tell you about how much Andy loves his dad and brother.  And my dad, and my brother.

I want to tell you about what a good friend he is and that his friendships are a testament to the kind of human he is.

I want to tell you all about it but there are children’s families who are grieving and teacher’s families grieving too.  There are too many guns and too much hate in the world.  There is war and devastation and brokenness.  You know it and I know it. 

 So, I hold lightly all the joy I carry from floating through the art gallery today.  I wrap my arms around my funny-unique family members and breathe hope from those hugs.  I sit with both deep appreciation for creativity and deep despair for destruction.

 I weep for the world and yet sing for it, too.

 I sing, mostly, because in 6th grade my big cousin Andy came to hear me sing my fist solo on my school stage:  Please Mr. Postman.  Andy told me I was the best singer he has ever heard and I pretty much believe him still.

 If you would like me to sing for you – a song of hope or peace or inclusion or justice – I would be happy to.  Just come tap me on the shoulder.  I’ll be sitting at the table with my big cousin who will be laughing at something ridiculous but endearing I’ve just said.  After all, that’s what big cousins do.

They shine.