Nine Lives of a Sister

In times like these, it is easy to forget ourselves, to forget that Spring will come. The world's weight presses in, making us feel small, uncertain, and unsteady. My grievances seem to block the brilliance. And then Spring comes, slow and shyly, slipping in, waking us from the dream of darkness and devastation and returning us to peace.

"Let everything happen to you—beauty and terror.Just keep going.No feeling is final."—Rainer Maria Rilke

It’s rocky out here, I’ll give you that. But it seems that, like death, the shifting is part of the plan when you live in the sands of time. I watch myself tumbling through life, eternally in pursuit of something steady, only to find myself tossed to the wind again and yet ever held in Grace's expansive net.

It’s best to cultivate a bit of detachment as we attempt to navigate this world as a mirage, a facsimile, a whirling mass of thoughts and stories and emotions that come and go too fast to pin down. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

And even in the roundabout of life and death, we somehow remain essentially the same. Even as everything cycles around us, even in all the changes, the soul is eternal. And Spring has arrived, and I am eight.

I am eight.

I am eternally eight years old and boiling with frustration and longing as my cycling sisters circle me, beautiful blurry banshees swarming, seducing, and dismissing me as they weave around our front yard. Like human sailboats on wheels, gliding in and swiftly sailing out and down the block and back again, and I, the monkey in the middle, am trying to grasp them like slippery kite stings, I have no luck.

“Let me on,” I scream. “Please, take me with you!” They crane their heads back at me with sweaty smirks they scream. “No, Maureen, you're too big!”

How can I be too big when I feel so small? “You need to learn to ride on your own. Use the black bike, they shout as they move off again. Watching them go fills me with dread. Knowing I will be left for good. I will never catch up. I will always be the kid sister, forever left behind.

The black bike is in the garage; it has a silver banana seat and half of a ringer. The top part is missing, and you can see the gears. The spokes and chain are rusty and reluctant, and the metal moans as I pull it up and shake it from its winter slumber. The moan is chilling in the dark garage, and the bike is heavy, awkward, and laden with cobwebs. I want to give up before I even get it to its wheels. But the howling of my sisters like distant train horns reminds me of my mission, and I use all my might to steady and then straddle the bar between my legs. With my pointed toes, I slowly tip-toed my way to the front yard. Once in the safe view of my sisters, I attempt a running start, hoisting my body onto the seat. Immediately, I see things I could not see from the earth; the higher view gives me a flicker of confidence as my feet search for the peddles, my hands grip the handlebars, and I am off.

But with no understanding of how to stop, I steer toward the hedges, hoping to break my speed. In I go, gulped up by branches and bramble, swallowed whole. I unweave myself from the thicket, howling at the bloody scrapes on my legs and hoping to stir some pity in my sisters. They pull up, squinting with skepticism and concern. Drawing in Oscar-winning accuracy, I plead, “I need help.”

Maggie climbs off first. “Come on, Erin,” she says. “You hold her on that side, and I’ll get her from this side. Then we run. Maureen, you pedal and don’t stop.”

They do their best to keep me up as I tilt back and forth like John Boy Byrnes after he has spent too much time drinking wine with my father, the Giant. Maggie screams, “Pedal, pedal!” in my ear, her heavy breath on my cheek, her shaky arms holding me steady. I push down hard as the metal creaks and whines back at me. Clenching my gut, standing up straight, putting all my weight into it, we are a slow-moving three-headed beast. Jiggling and jangling down the block like a glass jar full of rusty nails.

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“Good job,” Erin mutters. “Keep pedaling,” Maggie repeats.

I will my legs to move faster. We pass the Tracy’s house, and the Gostils’. But by the time we get to Bananie’s house, Maggie lets go and falls to the grass. Erin quickly follows. I slow to a stop and jump my feet to the earth so as not to fall over. And I imagine what Nadia Comaneci must feel like to stick a landing.

Maggie looks at me, then down at the Bananie’s driveway. It’s a short, steep hill leading to the street, a stone wall holding back their property, protecting cars and offering us a perch to peek into the passing traffic.

She stands and steers me and the bike to the top of the driveway. Erin jumps up, too, but watches from the safe distance of the grass. “You’re not supposed to ride in the street,” she reminds us.

We don’t even look at her because we know the rule and have already decided to break it.

“When you have to stop, use your feet because the brakes don’t work so good, okay?” She waits for my buy-in.

I nod, breathe, and stare at the steep drive to the street below.

“On the count of three, I’m going to push you off, down the drive, and into the street. Ready?”

Again, I nod. We check that no cars are coming, and then she begins to count. I stare at the silver banana seat between my legs and the tips of my toes, trying their best to hold my balance. I think I should pray, but “Three!” is called, and she pushes me off, and the bike takes flight right into the path of an oncoming car. It has come out of nowhere and is charging like a bull, horn screaming, air rushing up at me so hard I can hardly keep my eyes open, like holding my face too close to a fan. My hair stands up; my skin wiggles on the bone. My feet flail on either side of the bike.

In the blur of watching my life end, I hear Maggie screaming, her voice high, her words are odd sound muffled and mangled beneath the blare of the horn. And I know I will soon join them.

The driver flashes before me, his white knuckles clutching the steering wheel, his wide eyes shocked and angry. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to be a witness to my own death. I hold to the handlebar like a jackhammer over the loose gravel. Her voice comes again, but this time, I can hear her.

“Turn the wheel! Turn the wheel!”

Without thinking, without knowing, I pull the handlebars toward the curb. The bike hops and pops over cracks and potholes, my teeth bang together, and I know I am going to die. I open my eyes one last time to see his face, his mouth open and yelling as he tugs on the wheel. I close my eyes again and hear the screeching of tires, and then, instead of a crash, I feel a warm whoosh. A blast of hot and holy air shoving me toward the curb. My feet find the pedals. I begin pumping. My knees shake, but I keep pedaling.

At our driveway, I turn the wheel, the bike bumping over the walkway. At the yard, I toss it to the ground and collapse into the grass, listening to my heartbeat pounding against the earth. Boom, boom, boom. My heart, my beating heart, telling me I am somehow still alive. This thought releases a dam, and tears spill from my eyes like spring sprinklers.

My sisters come running and fall beside me. I press my face into the dirt so they don’t see my tears. I don’t want them to call me a baby.

Erin pokes my side to make me laugh, but I am not so ticklish. “You’re probably part cat,” she smirks.

“Cat?” I ask, looking up at her.

“Yeah, cats have nine lives.” She stops speaking when she sees my tears. I lay my head back down and think about Tom from Tom and Jerry—how he always gets back up after being hit with a frying pan or smashed by a boulder.

I don’t think I am part cat. I know it’s my sisters. It’s always my sisters. Every time, without fail, flying in like superheroes, they catch me, warn me, cover for me, and protect me. They are the ones to count on, the sure thing, who steer me in the right direction and guide me from the mouth of death. I have nine lives, but not because I am a cat, but because I am a sister.

Maggie pulls a blade of grass and smiles down at me. “Now you know how to ride.” I turn my face back to the earth. I am not convinced. “You should probably stick to the sidewalk till you get a little better.”

Uncle Harry’s car pulls to the curb, and the girls take off to get in one more ride before dinner. I swatch them mount the bikes like horses, smooth and fierce, they ride the wind.

This time, I am not so envious. This time, I don’t chase after them. I’ll stick to the sidewalk, walk, or watch from the stoop.

The Giant slams the car door and passes by me. I move in his shadow as we make our way to the house. At the front door, he turns to me. I think about telling him about the car and the horn and how I saw death. But my dad is so tall. Will my words make it all the way to his ears? Besides, it’s hard to wrangle my thoughts so I just stare up at him as he brushes his chin and says, “Don’t leave that bike on the grass.” I nod and turn back as he makes his way into the house.

We will have only a few more years till my mother passes from breast cancer, but he must have heard the rumble on the tracks. Between my near-death and her complete transition, we will face a thousand shifts and changes.

"Let everything happen to you—beauty and terror.Just keep going.No feeling is final."—Rainer Maria Rilke

Death does not come alone; it ushers in a new chapter, but not before convincing us of its permanence and that we will live forever in darkness. And yet, Spring returns again and again. We rise stronger, more tender, and better informed.

We are not spared from fear, but we are held within it. We are not promised safety, but we are given strength. We fall, we rise, we ride. Again and again. Ever seeking to find ourselves, to lose ourselves, to find ourselves once more.

“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.” -Mary Oliver

May this remind you that no matter how lonely or out of sorts you might feel at any given time, you, too, have a place in the family of things. And Spring is here again.

Love, Maur

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Lately, I have felt an odd calling, a pressure, a Guidance to do three things. It began with one, but once I followed through, the list grew. And then there were two, and now three. As always, I find myself on a “need to know” basis with my Higher Power. And I have a feeling there will be more steps to come.

But the first call was to bless my house. I shared this in my last Substack, complete with a prayer. The second was to open my home, which I also did, welcoming gatherings like Moon Circles and Sound Healing. Now, a few retreats are on the calendar. The third? “Find the altar.” If you’re anything like me, your home may already hold a thousand little altars.

I love creating them. A trip to Trader Joe’s for fresh flowers, a few candles, a shell, a statue, a bell, a book—and suddenly, an altar appears. The pressure lifts… and yet, the prompt remains: “Find the altar. Find the altar.” In stillness, I realize it’s not about creating altars but discovering them everywhere.

Could this blooming mushroom be an altar? A plate of food, a box of berries, the stoop full of friendship, the teacup, the bath, the Buddha? Perhaps everything is an altar.

What we approach with reverence takes on the essence of the holy.

This Sunday at SpeakEasy (10:30 am CT), we are discussing Altered States and how to access them. If interested, click the link and register for the Zoom info.

Every other year, I host retreats on Madeline Island. This summer, we are back with more revelations, inspirations, and liberations. There is a link below for more information and to hold your spot. These fill up fast.

These retreats are a weaving of creativity, recreation, spiritual practices (based on A Course in Miracles), and the mythology and archetypes of The Maiden Voyage. This is your invitation to step into your spiritual sovereignty, awaken your creative fire, and rewrite the narrative of the Divine Feminine. Surrounded by nature’s beauty, immersed in ritual, and guided by deep wisdom, you will find the clarity, confidence, and inspiration to rise. Click the link to find out bout dates, times, and availability.

DESSERT

A community member sent me this video, and I liked it. It made me feel hopeful. So, enjoy dessert.