Pixie in Paradise

I guess if you want to call me a writer, then there were a couple of others in my family as well. My dad – the water witch – who does have a way with words, but has not cultivated that art, had a father and a sister who did. My grandpa and Aunt Edie were very gifted artists and writers. I get my fire and spiciness from my dad’s mom, but some of this writing skill sure comes from Grandpa and Edie. Don’t worry, I get plenty of fire and spice from my mom’s side too. With this kind of potential for all of the sass – and the tiny cute ass – I don’t know how I’m not in prison, or at least stripping down by the airport for dollar bills. Not that those two traits necessarily equate a life of crime or dirty southside bars, it just popped into my head. Truthfully, I’ve thought of both of those as options before, given some of my choices earlier in life.

I have a couple of social media accounts, one I started when I moved out of the US and one I’ve had for almost a decade. The more recent one (@pixieinparadise) is what I use most; the older one, I don’t check as much. Yesterday I was scrolling on the older account and saw a familiar face in a big red curly wig. It was a woman named Cristy who I follow on Instagram. She’s a fashion designer and I originally just followed her clothing account but she’s so darn beautiful and charismatic – and my age – so I followed her personal account as well. She seems like this amazing, kind, electric human that lights up any space she occupies. She looks like a model and always has flawless hair, makeup and outfits. But, she doesn’t look pretentious or snobbish. She looks phenomenal while still being a real person.

I knew what that wig was for, the minute I saw her short video pop up, and my stomach lurched. I listened to a few seconds of her video and unfortunately I was right: she was giving a cancer update. I was so saddened to hear this. I scrolled back to try and see when the diagnosis occurred. How long have I been gone and not aware of some of the things going on? Most of the people I follow on Instagram I haven’t met in person. There are some, like Cristy, who I will probably never meet but I knew she was one of my soul sisters immediately. It’s easy for us to spot each other and from wherever we are we’re always cheering on and supporting the others, including ourselves.

I had a message exchange with Cristy a couple of years ago when I saw that she and her family lost everything when their house burnt down. They were able to get out safely but I think one or more of the dogs was injured severely. I had sent her a message at the time to let her know how sorry I was and was sending prayers to her and her family at this devastating time. It would seem that I should be sending messages more often than just during times of trial. I feel very strongly that this is how my friends and I need to communicate: not just reaching out when something has gone completely sideways, but every once in a while, “How are you, really?” I don’t have a friendship established with Cristy, she is just someone I admire from a distance, like many of us do on social media platforms. I do try to check in with my friends even if it’s a quick “I love you.” Life is short. I don’t have time for people to be “too busy,” or “not wanting to be on their phone,” if you want to keep and foster actual relationships. If you’re too busy during everyday life, you will not be there when someone needs you when they’re world is crashing down. That is why I’ve had to let some precious friendships fall by the wayside. If you can’t send a message or check on me or others after an appropriate amount of time, you probably just need to focus on what it is in your life that’s more important than your loved ones. By “appropriate amount of time,” my gauge is, every one to three months – and that’s stretching it. It’s just my rule, make up your own, and tolerate what you want. This is what works for me in most situations.

After I searched Cristy’s social media a bit to gain some understanding of what she had shared with the public, I sent her a message. I just felt called to do so. Here’s what I sent:

“Whoa, Cristy. I’ve been living in Central America and on an amazing journey for eight months and just saw your latest post! You’re so vibrant and full of life and positive energy and this was an unexpected. But that’s what life is, a series of unexpecteds. I’m praying for you and family and I’m grateful that you seem to have such a great support system. I also want to offer you the name of a book my wonderful Aunt Edie wrote about her time with Stage 4 breast cancer and her unwavering faith in God. She defied so many odds and you are going to as well. Sending all my love, Kim”

This was Cristy’s response: 

“I’m so grateful for angels in the outfield. Your words matter. Thank you. Truly. Your aunt Edie sounds amazing…you know she’s with you. Often. And she is grateful that a little bit of her spirit is in you, here on earth. She called you specifically, “a good wild.” In an endearing and wonderful way. Not sure that makes sense. But, just letting you know…”

Let me tell you, I was glad I was sitting down when reading that message. Speechless, but I knew every word of it was the truth. The uncanny similarity to what Cristy told me Edie had said to describe me – “a good wild” – is so eerily close to my writings and thoughts I’ve had lately, since coming back to the US from my time living in the jungle. In fact, in my last post towards the end I explained how much my support system means to me because they love me even though they know I’m strong-willed and untameable: 

“…these people love and cherish me and have for years, but they have always loved and cherished me even though they’ve always thought I was a little feral. Those are the folks I keep close to me, the ones that love me wild.” 

The other reason I know and truly believe this message was sent to me from Edie is that her father (my grandpa) sent me a message that felt the same way. Grandpa died when I was 16 years old. I was living in Oklahoma City and the rest of my dad’s side of the family all lived in Wisconsin, and still do. I don’t remember the reason, but I was not sent up there for his funeral. I was 16 and probably absorbed in my narrow-minded teenage angst-y life and don’t remember much about anyone but myself. However, a few weeks after grandpa passed away, I received a message from him in the middle of the night. I can’t tell you if I was awake or if I was dreaming but I would bet everything I have that this particular message was from him. Here’s why.

My dad’s side of the family are the stoic, German Lutherans. They don’t show a lot of emotion and they’re tough as fuck. They were farmers and laborers. My grandpa did farm and they tended gardens as big as football fields, it seemed, but he was more of an intellectual. I remember him in his button-up cardigan sweater with his nose constantly buried in a book. Of course he was retired by then and he also spent time painting pictures of countryscapes and birds and carving furniture and toys in his woodshop. He was quite the Renaissance man. He seemed softer, more quiet, and my grandma ran the show. These were not superficial people. Children weren’t praised for how cute they were in this family. We were praised for our academics, we might play a musical instrument or two and we were supposed to go to church at least once a week. Well, at least they drank. 

No, no one drank to excess but my talented grandparents made homemade wine out of every fruit, and sometimes the occasional vegetable, that they grew. We always got a tiny sip. That’s it. I wish this part of the story would get more entertaining but grandma never ever got drunk and fell out of a chair. I know Edie is reading this right now and smiling, and I also know the exact sound that just came out of grandma’s mouth up there too, and the face she made along with it.

The message my grandpa gave me came in his words and his voice. It was him. All he said was, “I think you’re very smart.” I realize this is a very anticlimactic sentence and definitely wouldn’t be attention-getting in a dramatic movie about family or loss, but because of the specific words he chose and how they were placed, I knew it was him. And this is not a movie, and since I can only write non-fiction, that’s what we have. It meant everything to me though, and I realized at that moment grandpa wasn’t holding any sort of grudge because I hadn’t been at his funeral. In fact, he had come back somehow to say those words, just like Edie spoke through beautiful Cristy somehow, to give me that message. When I was an adult my grandma and I were talking about grandpa and it must have been a discussion about the last time she saw him. She told me that the last thing he told her was, “Take care of your needs.” These people just don’t get very mushy! Grandma sort of chuckled even though it was a mildly somber discussion, because she told me that she thought grandpa said, “Take care of your knees.” (I think grandma had one or maybe both knee replacements by then, so it did track, but still, your husband is dying and that’s what he says? Oy).

Please don’t ask me to explain the unexplainable and the magic that is all around us. I can’t explain communication with loved ones that have gone to another realm before us any more than I can explain quantum physics. But just like that concept, I know there are things out there bigger than humans. Some people call that faith. Others try to throw in the term “religion.” In these two situations I’ve experienced I don’t spend a lot of time trying to analyze the “how.” For that matter, who am I to say who has ended up where after they’ve transitioned from this lifetime and moved to the next? Let’s assume Edie is in what we might call heaven, with her parents – my grandma and grandpa. Fine. And for all intents and purposes at least two of them have communicated with me since they left this world. You may not believe that but I sure do, now more than ever. If I can be so brazen as to think my deceased loved ones can still watch over me and send me messages, I guarantee Grandma Esther is doing it all the time. I believe that somewhat uptight, hair-in-a-bun, church luncheon lady team captain watched over me as I traveled over the last year. She used to love flying on airplanes and I think she was more adventurous than she ever let on. And for the record when you’re referring to the Lutheran Ladies, yes, it is ALWAYS “luncheon,” NEVER “lunch.”