About (and to) my brother, who is out there somewhere

I realized today that it's been almost seven months since the last time I heard from my brother. The last phone call I received lasted for 30 seconds - long enough for him to ask something of me and for me to say no. I haven't had an actual conversation with him for over 9 months. I don't know where he his, how he is, what he's doing. This is the way he wants it to be.

It's an incredibly weird thing. Our relationship was always oddly complicated by the parenting role I was forced into with him. I'm not his mom but I'm more than his sister. I was forced to lead him but not empowered to teach him. I did a very poor job of the whole thing and it's a great example of how teenagers struggle to be good parents without help from more mature people. All of which is neither here nor there, sort of, but goes a long way to hint at my complicated connection to my brother.

 And now he's gone.

 Some days, I want to whine about the whole thing. I'm supposed to just keep going as if nothing has really changed. He removed himself from my life voluntarily and (I assume) is moving along in his own journey. He didn't tragically disappear and there's always the lingering possibility that one day he'll call me up to say hello. Having lost my mom I do understand what that possibility can mean, what hope it carries. But the circumstances regarding his absence don't really make everything all OK. I've lost something, and it's pretty big.

 A part of me is so very angry with him for creating this division. I think that it wouldn't be so hard for him to email me sometimes, just to let me know he's alive. But that probably wouldn't be enough either.

I'm trying to mourn my brother, knowing he's out there somewhere. It's surreal and confusing. A part of me needs to grieve for the loss of him but the rest of me sees that need as self-indulgent. After all, I say, he's not really gone. I can't help but wonder how many times I'll think that and for how long before I'll cry.

If all this sounds like going around in circles, it's because that's where I'm stuck. Circling the absence of a person who meant so much to me. A person who's gone but isn't, a grief that's real but denied.

After being gone for a week, it's only natural that everyone is going to ask me how the vacation went. The problem I'm having is trying to concisely answer the question while still being authentic. It's harder than you'd think.

We were gone to Cornerstone Festival, an annual event I've attended for the last 12 years. Marc has been to 27 fests. My children have gone every year of their lives. We mark our year with the fest - is it pre-fest, or post-fest? When Marc would interview for a new job, he'd tell them the week of July 4th was required time off, or no deal. This is the extent to which attending the festival was part of our lives.

This year was the last one.

It's hard for me to tell you why attending the fest was so important to us. We each had a different reason and each year surprised us anyway. Yes, it was a christian festival, but it wasn't always about religion. Some years I learned a lot about myself. Other years about other people. Some years I spent a lot of time feeding my academic yearnings, other years just hanging out enjoying the sound. Cornerstone was like a detox for our lives. No cell phone reception. No television. No school work or house repairs. As a music festival, it was also about the bands. But frankly, you can catch concerts throughout the year (and we do). If it were only about the sound, we wouldn't have made this an annual trek. At the heart of it,Cornerstone was about relationships. Connecting with another person, in person and personally.

This years festival was organized and billed as a final goodbye. And if something has to end, it's always easier (a little) with a good party as a send off. We've been watching Cornerstone struggle. Blame other festivals. Blame the aging loyal attendees. Blame the economy. Blame the 'success' of 'mainstream' Christianity. Throw out a wide blanket of blame and I'm sure you'll come up with something reasonable. The blame is irrelevant, though, to the consequence. Fewer folks buying festival tickets. Fewer bands able to afford the stop. A smaller festival. Debt to deal with. Weariness. We knew the end was nigh, and I'm grateful for the chance to say farewell.

So, how was my vacation? It was hot. Temperatures in the 100s with no rain, no clouds, no a/c, no relief. More trips to town just for the a/c of the car and a chance to actually eat something without feeling ill. I've rarely sweated that profusely. The last trip to the lake wasn't even cooling, the water was so warmed by the sun. No rain means so much dust I'll be coughing it up for a week. And I know you're wondering about the facilities. The heat means each porta-potty was like it's own solar oven and practically unbearable during the day. Which, honestly? Didn't matter much because no matter how fast or much I drank I just sweated it all out. We spent more money on cold drinks and lunch in town than usual, cutting into our music budget. After being home for a day I'm so tired just the thought of carrying up the laundry to fold is doing me in. My vacation was a ton of work and in many ways completely miserable.

And then. There's always something else to the story. It's not really about trying to find a silver lining. But I'm smart enough to know that there were fantastic things about this trip.

The lack of rain led to clear, bright skies at night. The stars were enormous in the sky. I spent one concert laying on a blanket next to Oliver (2yrs old) and "catching" the stars from the sky with our bare hands, then throwing them back to see how magically they landed in the right places. The Milky Way was breathtaking and I stood in a field with Arianna (9yrs old) admiring it at 2AM. The moon was huge and yellow when low in the sky and as it rose the craters were so clear. It reminded me of last year's festival, laying on the blanket, a tangle of arms and legs as all three kids slept around me and listening to one of my favorite bands while staring at the stars.

We've had 9 festivals full of children sleeping under the stars while taking in some amazing sounds.

We did go to the lake hoping for a bit of relief. I may have not appreciated it, but the boys had a blast. They built an island on shore, flooding the waterways with the plastic wagon, and creating a whole new place. They ran into the water laughing hysterically, feeling so confident and daring. Oliver would throw himself in, then set off paddling along. Xavier (4yrs old) is normally very insecure about water but the gentle slope helped him find a large play area shallow enough for him to walk around. The water wasn't cool, but it was a ton of fun to hang out in.

I met new people and got to think about how I've ended up here and saw all the good things. I talked with old friends and could see the struggles as part of a bigger picture. I sat under the sky and remembered to be poetic. I fell in love with my family again.

And then the end came. We said goodbye. We cried. We drove away from the festival at 2 in the morning and arrived home as dawn came across the sky. This year, it's not just about the end of a festival but about mourning.

How was my vacation? It was a lifetime. It was a way of life.

The. End.