Lessons from the Lotus

I recently traveled with my sister and two-year-old daughter to North Louisiana for what would be a bittersweet treasure hunt within the walls of my late Grandmama’s home. We spent the better part of the day sorting through old letters, linens, décor, photos and family records while politely placing sharpie-labeled post-its on items we wished to claim.

After rolling off of my grandmother’s recliner and nearly ripping a priceless letter I’d found from my grandmother to her own, my baby girl made it clear that she was done. Mom and I headed north to her house as Quinn babbled herself to sleep, and my sister decided to stay a little longer and catch a ride with our uncle.   

Upon my sister’s arrival, we girls gathered in the kitchen to reflect and recharge over pulled pork and glasses of cabernet. My sister recalled a ring my grandmother had bought in Taos, NM wondering if it had been claimed already or even found at all.

She described it as being a silver lotus with a white pearl nestled inside and reminded me that I had “loved it all my life.” She also told me that it was the inspiration for a ring she’d bought for me years ago. And while I certainly remembered the silver ring she’d given me as a birthday gift, I had not noticed that it was a lotus or maybe had forgotten. 

As she tried to jog my memory, my blank stare must have tipped her off to the fact that her efforts were futile. I sensed frustration in her voice but found the whole conversation to be kind of magical. There was no way she could have known that I was in the midst of researching and writing about what else but the lotus. 

I still can’t envision my grandmother’s ring, and sadly, it has yet to turn up. But I think it kicked off what would become a spiritual connection I’d find with the pond-dwelling plants and with myself.

The ring my sister gave me.

As I reflected on the lotuses of my past, I recalled buying a gold lotus charm necklace because, as the symbol of the month, it was 20% off and a royal blue blouse with white lotus blooms that screamed my name through an Anthropologie window. I remembered the lotus candles I’d bought to elegantly float during our wedding reception but instead violently spun thanks to the force of the fountain and lack of a test run.   

I’d given them to others – a lotus pod angel ornament as a Christmas gift for a client and sky blue friendship bracelets strung through a silver lotus charm for three of my best friends during our girls getaway in Park City, Utah.

And I’d received them as gifts – a delicate lotus tea light candle holder given to me by my friend Caitlin who is one of the recipients of the aforementioned bracelets. I got a print of an alligator bonnet (a kind of Cajun lotus of sorts) as part of a set of four botanicals from my mom.

Me in my lotus blouse shot by Kendrick Disch of The Vertical River Company.

And it was the most recent gift of a live lotus plucked from a Pan Handle pond by my son Reed that awakened my long-time, under-the-radar admiration and led me to look into its meaning.   

I learned that the lotus has been lauded as a spiritual symbol for centuries by Egyptian, Indian and several Eastern civilizations. Here in the states, it’s likely most often associated with yoga, as the popular lotus pose is said to be responsible for not only achy knees, but the more favorable attributes of enlightenment and perfection.  

And while the specific interpretation varies, there seems to be a universal view of both the beauty and transformation of its blooms as a sign of rebirth.

With its roots firmly planted in the mud, the lotus retreats under the water each night and rises above to bloom the next day, one petal at a time and with no trace of the dirt or darkness from which it emerged.

This is the part of the story where I was going to make a clever, tidy transition about how the new year brought with it a momentous opportunity to make like a lotus and replace bad habits of the past  with new, good ones worthy of a new decade. Then, through the admission of my less-than-perfect but not-that-bad resolution efforts, I would help us all feel better and close with an uplifting urging to see each day as a chance to start anew.

But just like the lead, the happenings of my trip home have inspired a lot of rethinking and thus, rewriting. 

After our meal, I put Quinn to sleep, and my sister and I headed down the street to our cousin's for what would be a lighter visit. We talked about our kids, our Uncle’s new gig as a fire-fighting pilot in Australia and the fondness shared by everyone for the fiery blonde from Yellowstone.

And when the obvious silence cued us all that it was time to hit the hay, we hugged and went our separate ways with intentions to pick up where we’d left off at Grandmama’s the next morning.  

But that was not to be, for me anyway. Something said during the sharing of old stories sparked my sister to want to share with me. And while her intent may have been good, her timing and delivery felt anything but and became the proverbial straw that not only broke the camel’s back but blew it into a million broken pieces.  

It was an explosive war of words that I’m still processing. As sisters four-plus years apart in age who come from a long line of hot-headed folks, we’ve had our fair share of fights. As kids they were silly and usually resulted in her screaming and my hurling barbies, cans of Joico mousse or whatever was within my reach towards her head.

My sister, dad & me at my Grandmama’s house Easter 1986’ish

As adults, something silly would ignite the fight, then the blame and shame was thrown, inflicting wounds worse than any object could ever cause. Life had become more complicated. We struggled with the sickness and subsequent death of our dad when she was 18, and I was 14. He was diagnosed with colon cancer the day after her high school graduation. Thanks to a full scholarship she’d earned to our hometown university, she moved into a dorm across town that fall. I may have gained more bathroom space and access to her closet, but I’d lost my life-long roommate and had been replaced by an even cooler one from Baton Rouge with better hair and shoes. My sister had left me behind, and I was watching my dad do the same. My hurt and teenaged angst were on full display each time she’d come home to visit, which I now know hurt her. Our dad succumbed to the cancer the following fall days before I started high school, and we all got along as best we could.

She became a wife with a husband I adore, and who similarly to me, prefers to passively keep the peace sometimes at the expense of addressing the issues preventing it. She became a mom to a baby girl who I’ve been in love with since I first laid eyes on her head of curls as it entered this world. She would go on to have a son, who too would steal my heart as I held him from the hospital room on his second day of life.

I became a wife welcoming my husband Matt into the family, who funny enough, shares the more direct, problem-solving style of my sister. We welcomed our first child, a son Reed, and the day after he was born, my sister announced from the hospital room that she would be having a third child, a red-headed baby girl who would arrive just six months after Reed and who, like her siblings, had my heart at hello when I first held her months after her birth.. 

As our families grew, so did we.

The frequency of our squabbles likely decreased over the years, but the magnitude of the pain they represented and caused increased, along with the time it would take us to move past them to the point of pretending everything was fine.

Somewhere along the way, attempts to address issues turned explosive and then were abandoned altogether. Acts of love and kindness became conditional, and our collective pain began to cloud our ability to see the good in one another. Instead of taking care of each other, we began protecting ourselves from each other and inadvertently inflicting more pain. Our impenetrable defense became our cruel offense. 

Since moving with her family to a suburb just north of Atlanta, where I live with mine, we’ve seen each other more often and both felt that we were on a path to a stronger relationship. But the truth is, while we may have gotten closer in proximity, our unhealed hurt was causing a chasm that would keep us far apart. 

We played the part of supportive sisters. I decided to accept the fact that we were different people, who parented differently and perceived the world differently. I thought we could continue to play nice, tip toeing on eggshells and successfully avoiding the next world war. We’d look to the less-than-convenient thirty minute commute as an excuse to not get together as often as we should and also as a comfort, knowing the other wasn’t too far away if we needed her.

I went into the weekend thinking we were in a pretty good place, and it seems that my sister did, too. While we’d all but given up on addressing the awkward elephant in the room that was our current connection or lack thereof, it was her ill-fated attempt to reconnect that ultimately led me to sever it. 

I thought I was strong enough to be able to let anything she said or did that felt hurtful to me roll off of my back like the dirt on a lotus leaf. I told myself that her issues with me were just that, her own. And while my efforts to help her be happy were less frequent than years past, I still held onto hope that the right words, either my own or someone wiser's,  would help her find the same resilience and peace I had, and we’d live like Elsa and Anna, each with our own families but stronger together as one big happy one.

But I was wrong on several fronts. The tension we both felt couldn’t be hidden forever. The façade would inevitably come down. I, while making strides, was still suffering with some deep, open wounds. And despite my good intent, I was wrong to think I could or should be the one to diagnose and try to heal her pain, or anyone else’s for that matter. 

It turns out that all along, we’ve been more similar than different. Our epic fights were truly misunderstandings - missed opportunities to understand the other. Maybe professional intervention could have helped us communicate and opened our eyes to the truth that the pain we blamed each other for was actually that of our own. Maybe one day it still will. 

I’m sad and remorseful, but I’m trying hard not to wallow in self-loathing, anger or blame. I’m trying to avoid my usual path of attempting to say or do the perfect thing to make myself and her feel better, recompense for my actions and prove my worth.

Instead, I’m drawing inspiration from my long, lost friend the lotus.

I’m getting more comfortable with being in the mud. I’m sitting with the pain instead of numbing it and speaking the truth instead of hiding it for fear of judgement or rejection.

Instead of staying down in the darkness heavy with shame, I’m digging for the pearls of wisdom and floating towards the light for the chance to put them to use.

I’m remerging unmarked with hope and gratitude for this life and the chance to try again.  

I’m allowing myself and my sister to bloom each at our own pace and in our own ways. And I am doing it with faith in divine timing and in my ability to eventually accept and love myself for being nothing more than myself.  

My plan was to come home from Louisiana having laid claim to a big pie safe, a set of china and a trunk – interestingly enough – all things we often hide away or hide things in. But I decided to forgo such items, opting instead for a small hair comb, a couple of books and a hanging stained-glass piece painted with hummingbirds.

But the greatest gift I left with is the truth. Unknown and uncomfortable facts about my decedents and raw emotions shared between me and my sister had made their way from the shadows where they’d been collecting power like dust. The truth was out in the open, and while it hurt like hell, it also set me free.  

And that’s where I am right now. Free to live another day, to win, to write, to lose, to learn and to love myself unafraid of what will happen if not everyone else does, too.

And just like my Grandmama’s lotus ring I once loved, forgot and has since been lost, I’m hopeful and faithful that the loving, supportive relationship I once had with my big sister will remerge and bloom once again in due time.