Music is a bit of an obsession in my family.
It is the way I have categorized and filed the seasons of my life in my head. The ultimate soundtrack to the self centered movie reel that plays in my head. It is the way my siblings and I seem to communicate. Like twins who develop some intimate womb language. When a certain song is shared, or video sent, it reveals whats going on with them and connects us right away. I always joke that around age 25 I stopped being able to commit to new music. I prefer to just listen to all the old stuff in my collection on shuffle. New music takes too much energy to learn. They will have nothing to do with that and they have shared with me some stuff that has become my favorite.
There are rules to this quasi religion. Certain music that is designated by season, only to be observed in the winter months or warm summer nights. Definite albums that reign superior. Acceptable music for road trips. Songs that are appropriate to talk during, some that are NOT. We have logged many hours together, just singing and sharing. Now that they are all grown and moved away from me these “sessions” are sacred when we are all in one place.
My husband has been generous to share me in these times, knowing the importance. My husband has been an angel, knowing the volume of EVERYTHING goes UP when we are all together.

It is so weird to me when people are indifferent about their siblings. I find it offensive. Then I realize that WE are not the norm. I am the weird one. Most people are not cemented to their siblings like I am. We have been through so much life together. In ways that no explanation can capture, and to them there is no need. They are my biggest fans and quickest critics.

I heard this Van Morrison song this morning while I was up this morning.

“Into the Mystic” being a warm weather song, made me wince and miss my family.

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home
And when the fog horn blows I want to hear it
I don’t have to fear it…

This is a poem I wrote for them. Happy Friday!


A more inaccurate word never existed.
A word that implies a growth, weak and unwanted like a skin tag.

How tragic.

A sibling is a base line that carries the song from beginning to end. Always adding, never taking.
Not a growth to be removed but a growth sewn with the fibers no other humans will know but we-
who have lived life together.

I get to be my true me at rest and at play.
No expectations.
No hidden games.
We’ve all seen that before and know how that artificial flavor tastes.
Not quite right.
Like imposter otter pops that taste like cough syrup and water…but we eat them anyway.
Tending to more serious matters of heating vent communications and lurking in the dark on ninja missions.

Our world was fractured again and again and again as time changed our faces and tugged us along, but these ropes have not slacked.
They have not given way.
Only tightened and hardened in the sun and weather.
Tying knots for rangers and wolves and songs and stories.

You’re in my skin like a tattoo.
My dreams for you stretch further than your reach in hopes that it will make up the difference.
The difference between you blooming despite the chill an the frost we have made home or wilting beneath the heat and pressure of these grown up days.

May we stretch and bloom!
Never be moved.
Laughing, always laughing.