Welcome to my flurry of new subscribers! I’m beyond moved to feel you here; thank you for joining this hearth of inquiry and reflection as we explore living well, instead of living “fixed.” On Sundays I share chapters from my memoir and for those who are new here, I recommend starting from the beginning with the Preface. I’ve conveniently linked successive chapters at the bottom of every page so you can binge read and catch up easily. Or visit the Table of Contents to pick up where you left off. My mid-week posts explore “living unfixed” through voices in the community—videos, quotes, poetry, resources and prompts—providing opportunities to reflect on your own life experiences and cultivate strength, resiliency, solidarity and meaning from the messy and unfixable.
On Halloween evening, when a thin veil separates the living and the dead, I receive an email from Richard Brauer.
Kimberly,
Amazing! I received your letter thinking that it must be something related to an event I was working on. You can imagine my jaw dropping silence, turning to a smile as I read further. It is truly a wonderful thing that you mustered the courage to contact me. I was 30 when Chuck vanished on Lake Michigan on September 23, 1985. There is a plaque on a park bench in Frankfort honoring him. 3 healthy Red Maples flank the bench.
It took a couple weeks to share your letter with my sisters, Janet and Carol, since I knew we were getting together. I copied your letter and let them read it as I watched. It was an unforgettable experience. They are also thrilled and will surely be contacting you.
I’m going to keep this short for now, but wanted to let you know that we are excited to meet you and your mom and share the zillion stories about Charles, known to us as Chuck. He was an adventurous spirit!!!
BTW, you have 9 cousins here!!! Ages 28–45 I think. My kids are the youngest of the group.
Words hardly express the excitement.
Welcome.
Rich
Ps: Attached is a photo I took of Chuck in 1972 with his new pup Ranger.
Welcome. This simple, pedestrian word has never. in my life. meant more than now. The letters strung together, long and round, are gentle arms. I am welcome. I read the letter again. And again.
Rich’s words embrace and nudge me down onto solid ground.
But excitement and anxiety jumble sensory input—the ground is quicksand. I can’t erase what I’ve done. There is no turning back.
I stare at the attached black and white portrait of Charlie and Ranger. Rich called him Chuck. This man of mom’s stories, this man who now is my biological father, I’ve only ever known as “Charlie.” Do I now call him Chuck? Too much new information all at once. I’ll stick with Charlie for now. He is twenty-three years young in the photo. His shoulders are broad and I fixate on the way his torso cradles Ranger, the redbone coonhound who accompanies him everywhere, on stage, in the woods and even has a barking cameo on an album. I am envious of Ranger, longing to feel my own weight in this man’s arms. Would I feel safe? Would my body anchor in our shared, unquestioning blood? I title a new folder on my desktop “Charlie,” and drag the photo in. Like a girl with a grade-school crush, I make it my screen saver, my iPhone wallpaper, and print a hard copy for my night stand.
Later that day, I receive two emails from Janet and Carol with a flurry of new details, anecdotes, enthusiasm, and love:
Hey Kimberly… I, too, want to join Rich in welcoming you into our family!
He was that little brother who loved playing tricks on the rest of us…
He loved to drop by for a few days, spoil [his nieces and nephews] with a lot of attention then take off for other adventures…
Your mother is beautiful—I can see why Chuck couldn’t let her walk on by. I am so happy that you are the result!
When we were in high school he relentlessly dated all of my friends (he was beautiful and easy to love)…
It’s probably better to digest us in small doses—together we are a swarm of family!
Thank you for being so courageous. I’m certain that we will all get a chance to meet and we look forward to that happy day.
Welcome Kimberly!
There it is again. “Welcome.”
Why are these strangers so trusting and warm? I didn’t expect this. I wanted it, but had heard too many DNA test nightmares to get my hopes up. But their responses make more sense to me than my next breath. If the tables were turned, I would answer in kind. These humans respond to life the way I do—with enthusiasm, curiosity and trust. I wander around the house with a stupid, disbelieving grin on my face for weeks, months.
But sharing the story to friends and coworkers is different. I become more manic and shaky with each retelling of events. I am on a roller coaster and I can’t get off—overwhelming, exhilarating, terrifying all at once. I start living outside of myself. My body a frayed electrical circuit, grounding wires ripped out, raw and buzzing. I don’t know how to do this.
Each time I recount the story, I wish I hadn't. But I can’t not; it flies out of me, trying to find a place to nest and rest. And that place is not me. With each syllable of his name—Charlie, Charles, Chuck—I lose another Newton of gravity.
Soon, I will be floating.
I tell myself, This shouldn’t be that big a deal. Chill out Kim. Nothing has changed.
Some friends have a hard time understanding my reaction. They are estranged from their fathers and have had to build identities without them for a lifetime. I take their words in and feel shame for the destabilizing, bedrock shifting effect this is having on me. Why am I grieving someone I never knew? I had a loving dad, why do I need another? And if it’s not a big deal, then why do I feel like it is? Why can’t I find a foot hold, a hand hold, an anything-hold to grab onto and stabilize myself as this story unfolds?
And why am I feeling so many feelings for people I’ve never met?
I reread my family’s words, their easy, unassuming kindness, and I feel myself reflected back. I return to what is most true and solid. I know these people. I’ve known them for as long as I’ve lived. There has simply been a clogged pipe between us and now warm waters are gushing through.
Though I love it, dearly, I don't think I'd appreciated the word 'welcome' enough, until now. What an enfolding. I know we only know one another here, but I felt you in these new people, with their sweet and soothing words. I know the feeling well, of a story escaping before it can be caught and then it not being able to locate a safe enough landing spot... Know that our eyes and ears, here, are sturdy branches, where your story can rest, and be safe 🤍
This chapter, your family, and you restore my hope in humanity, in humans. The world tells us to close off, but there are still others whose arms are wide open, even when others may take advantage of that empathy and kindness. But I don't know, for me, it's harder to be closed off than to be open, even if it may get me in trouble from time to time. Thank you, Kimberly. You're light. <3