Who were you made from?

Last weekend, I gathered with a bunch of my extended family to fete my aunt’s 70th birthday. Her request was to spend it with her big sister (my mom, 74 years-old) by the sea. And so it went.

The matriarchs spilling some tea.

The journey was not simple, but full of delights. One family car was left in a small town in Utah, future unknown. A 3-day schedule was made and quickly abandoned for the wiser plan of just drifting down to the beach, a disorganized parade of galloping girls with pails and shovels and moms weighted down with snacks and sunscreen, rinse and repeat for three days. Tears were shed—by both enraged five-year-olds and emotionally ripened grandfathers. Fashion shows were performed, filled with hand-me-down dresses and last-minute stage fright. Someone offered us, supposed adults, a menu of either Eyeball Soup or Farts Galore (let’s just say, culinary experimentation has gone too far). Sand dollars and shells were collected, boxed wine was enjoyed, German chocolate cake was devoured. We googled the names of beloved independent bookstores and the year Bye Bye Birdie came out (1963). A two-year-old may or may not have consumed a couple of scented erasers.

As we drove home, the hunter’s moon glowing bright orange over my right shoulder, I felt immensely grateful for our time together. I couldn’t stop thinking about how at home I felt among the women in my family—my mother, aunt, and cousin, who in the absence of a sister of my own, has always felt more like a sister to me.

The women in my family are Nebraska stock—quirky, independent, tough as shit, quiet in a loud room, spiritual and religious, hikers, readers, unimaginative cooks. We are the kind of women who jump off the rock into the river, especially if only the guys have done it so far. We are also the kind of women who shows up when someone’s dying and clean the kitchen and then hold someone’s hand. For better and worse, we are the kind of women who have no clue what to do with an eyeliner pencil. 

Sometimes being of this matriarchal tribe is a total boon. I can muscle through a hard week without complaining much, have an amazing conversation in the midst of giant trees, and mother children with a palpable sense of delight. I’m the cheapest of dates and can drive a stick shift car through a mountain pass without fear.

Sometimes being of this matriarchal tribe is a total bust. Gritting your teeth this week can be a recipe for physical and emotional ruin in the long run. Finding a flow of service and self-regard is elusive. When the world offers up self-care in ways that feel bougie and girly, it’s hard to imagine an authentically nourishing alternative. 

When my mom dies, hopefully a very long time from now, I may or may not be able to find the few fancy rings which have been passed down from generation to generation. Chances are they’re not in a safe, but stuffed in the back of a drawer which also—logical to her—holds tarot cards, pantyhose, and “hard disks”—as she calls DVDs. That’s okay. My real inheritance is the way she lives—the adoration of children and nature, the investment in friends and books—and the unfinished work—learning how to choose my choice and take a fucking nap. 

We all come from somewhere, from someones. Mostly it’s a story we tell ourselves, piece together over months out of mythology and enigmatic memories. Sometimes we get to sit in a room and look at the thick dark brows and hard earned crows feet of our someones. The resemblance is uncanny and the resonance can be both soothing and searing.

Who were you made from? What delights are hardwired into you as a result? What evolution is still coming? These are the questions I am lucky enough to sit with at this midpoint in life, watching my mom and her sister age, as all these little girls—their granddaughters—run around them, crashing, swinging, dancing, shouting, as close to free as humans get.

The freest girls.

My cousin and I ditched everyone at one point and walked on the beach, walked alongside one another in bafflement, exhaustion, and wonder. Our pant legs got wet from the incoming tide. The day was gloomy. We didn’t care. It’s all so fleeting and sacred and imperfect and perfect—how could we be anything but reverent?