Ephie's Story

I remember sitting in a restaurant with my papa. I was probably six years old. It was late August and my family and I had gone to watch my sister jump her horse in a three day event. My father had taken me out to lunch while my mother stayed with my sister, helping her prepare for the event.

My father and I sat in a booth. I remember the afternoon sun; golden pushing through a dusty window. We ordered marionberry pie, and sat and talked. My father has rough hands, and uses them to paint pictures while he talks. When I think of my father, I think of his hands and how large they seemed next to my own.

He was teaching me about Democritus, who supposed that if you cut things up into smaller and smaller parts, eventually you would reach the smallest point. According to some, this was the beginning of our understanding of the atom. My father was illustrating this as we talked. As I child, I loved to learn, particularly the way he taught me. When he told me how the world works, things just made sense.

To show me about atoms, my father and I cut our piece of pie into halves, ate half, then cut the remaining portion in half, ate it, and so on until our plates had only a tiny speck of filling left. We had reached the crucible of the lesson and my father was in full animation. “Only” he said, “there are smaller parts yet. Bits so small, we can’t see them. We just know they are there.”

I think about my family a lot. About the way it’s become the way it has. Democritus’ principle has interesting implications. It seems I am a person who likes dissecting things, looking at the smallest parts. I also like looking at things as they exist in the bigger picture. Shrinking it down, blowing it up; over and over again until the important stuff becomes clear. Until I get to eat the pie.

I think about life this way, so I think about my family like this, too.

My family has an interesting history. I can trace my people back on both sides. My father’s people lived in the mountains. It was cold and the fields were tough and barren. They crossed an ocean as religious refugees, warmed by their faith and a sense of righteousness. My mother’s people moved to a country scarred by a different war than they were leaving. My mother grew up swimming in the sun and avoiding snakes as she walked to school. Both wore shoes with holes and ate at a simple table.

I try to imagine being in their place. Imagine what it felt like inside of their skin, inside of their minds. How did it come to this? Where does it go from here? How does it get better?

I grew up in star thistle fields and under oak trees. My best friends were our cats and dogs. I had other friends too, imaginary friends. I weeded by my father’s side, shot rattlesnakes, and played chess. My mother taught me about the heart, and when my friends died, she’d hold me until the tears dried up. She would let me come into her studio with her, and I would watch as she’d go into a silent world of color and image. I would draw next to her. It was a good childhood, I think.

There were hard things, too. My parent’s fighting while my sister and I hid beneath the stairs, their voices rising like waves in a storm. My father alone after their divorce, with a bottle of vodka and opera on so loud that the windows would vibrate. My sister’s drug addiction. Other things that my family could not prevent, which left my spirit more hesitant, more scared.

I’ve traced our steps back looking for lost information, running my fingers over the stories we tell each other about the past. Trauma, love, strength, hope; fragile, tender, aching humanity.

I am a mother now. I raise one child who grew in my womb and another who came from my sister‘s. At night I’ll sometimes creep into their room to watch them sleep. Chests slowly rising and falling, their eyelids soft in dream. It’s been a long road. My niece came to us a shell. Slowly, slowly, slowly, she’s regaining her whole heart, becoming herself.

Family can mean so many different things. I’ve lost family members, and also my family grows larger by the day. Love is exponential and contagious. t is the birthing place for hope, I think. My niece turned five years old a few weeks ago. The sky was moist and electric. We met in the forest, at the edge of the Salish Sea. We ate overly sweet birthday cake and were surrounded by friends. Facing the water, she blew out a candle for each of her years, wishing for the years to come. My heart nearly exploded, it felt so full.

When I was small, I felt responsible for the world’s tragedies and for the pain my family carried. I am the child who wanted to swallow up the hurt and cry out a miracle. It’s a relief to discover how small and insignificant I am. And because so many things are true at once, how truly significant each life is, including my own. Each of us is valuable and each of us has the capacity to make a difference through our own limited experience. Love can save lives, I’ve seen this to be true. Each of us exists in a bigger picture, strung like lights across time. We are unique. We are all similar.

Through parenting, I’ve been able to touch a sort of love I believe to be universal. A mother’s love, an auntie’s love, a father’s love, a grandfather’s love, a friend‘s love. Parenting forces us to be vulnerable. The rewards we gain are compassion, connection, and the privilege of being part of a deep creativity-the creation of generations.

We don’t need to parent perfectly, or to remove ourselves from our beautiful, flawed humanity. We just need to be willing to try. To do our best. To be ourselves. To reach up and touch love.

What holds a family together, no matter its history or structure, is love.

“Ephie” is a popular Mamapedia contributor. I am sure her name is familiar to many of you. This is her first stab at writing, and I think it is pretty amazing. Don’t you agree?