For my brave dear sister

Whenever I watch the Wizard of Oz film, I think of Karen as the lion. She might not have always felt strong, yet she was brave from the top to the bottom of her being. She was brave to have lived her life as she did. She was brave enough to live as long as she chose to and no longer.

Karen and I have a varied sisterly kinship. I knew her well until we were teenagers. Not so much once we were adults. Thankfully, fatefully, we became part of each other’s lives once again in the last eight or nine years. So please forgive the jump in my storytelling.

I knew Karen as an artist. When she was 18, and I was 15, we both left home. She rented this “small house” (slash derelict summer cottage) in Hudson. I moved into a “small apartment” (slash mould-ridden basement hovel) in Montreal. Karen was passionately interested in weaving. She was given a chance to work under the tutelage of a great local weaver, interning with her over the summer. She even bought herself a loom, which took up most of the tiny space she had in her house. She invited me to visit for a few days. We pretended to be adults, but we were still very naïve.

What I remember the most about that visit was the light shining out of her eyes. She loved weaving. She loved her day-to-day life, which was so different from the life of suburbia she wanted to move away from. She wanted to live the life of an artist.

Looking back over the last forty years since that visit with her, I believe she stayed true to her dreams. Even if you take into consideration all the constraints she experienced through her personal circumstances, or those posed upon her through the social norms she was born into, and particularly those that her illness fated, she always was an artist in the way she saw the world and how she used her hands. This is truly inspiring. It is a part of her legacy.

And then, about eight or nine years ago, Karen put together what we called the Hadley Family Council. Daniel, Kim, Karen and I would get together every few weeks to share stories from our childhoods or even present lives or seek advice on how to overcome any current crises we were experiencing. But mostly, we would pontificate on the marvels of our children and our children’s children and how their very existence brought pride and joy to our hearts.

We met not as quibbling siblings but as grown adults without any residue of past resentments. We gathered as adults with varied but shared histories. It is hard for me to describe to you the amount of love and kindness that was ever present in that space we created. All of that happened because Karen persistently sent out monthly invitations. It was clear that those times together meant much to her. Because of this, we showed up whenever she sent us an invitation.

Those times meant the world to me too. Kim, Daniel, and I continue to meet every few weeks. We light our candles so that Karen can take part as well. Salut, my dearest sister. May you be free and at peace.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)