I loved every word in this essay -- you were (and are) such a precious child. I thought about Vonnegut’s “karasse” in “Cat’s Cradle” -- you, Cora, all of us here, too.
When I was eleven my parents went on a trip to New England without us. A woman named Sandy watched us for a week. I'll be damned if I can remember a single actual detail about Sandy. But I do know she was "unconventional" for suburban Denver. Probably the first unconventional person I might. And even thought it might only have been a week, to this day I believe she lit a spark in me to love and appreciate that which is unconventional, and to seek it out in my own life in whatever ways possible.
So I agree with 100% about short encounters having huge impacts on us. I'm glad you have your Cora...
This is beautiful, Nia; thank you very much. I have goosebumps, and not just because of the New England chill here in Connecticut (though it's much colder back home in Kentucky). This essay resonates with me in ways, to put it in lab medicine parlance, "TNTC," too numerous to count.
What a beautiful, heart wrenching, emotional, and wonderful essay. I cannot say enough kind words about it, and it's impact on me. Thanks so much and I hope your world, the forests, mountains, and loved ones help you through this time of year. hugs, Paul
It is wonderful to read an essay such as this honoring our ancestors and predecessors. Indeed fortunate when we are given so many spirit guides among people and other living beings.
I am convinced that the only measure of immortality we can be sure of rests within those words of kindness and affection spoken about us long after we've left this world. And while it is up to each of us to plant the seeds of those words while we walk out this life, there are times when we sow unwittingly simply by being authentic and present in those fleeting moments of joy and connection with another human being. It's a little bit like magic.
You have done your beloved Cora a great service. Thank you for sharing.
Dec 24, 2022·edited Dec 24, 2022Liked by Antonia Malchik
"Maybe some of the deepest impacts on us come from the people who slip out of this life without leaving many noticeable marks behind." This is true, I think. Along with the influential mentor or grandparent who taught us everything important and inspired by example, there are the people who were just.....in our lives, somewhere. With Cora, I wonder if it had to do with her being an authority figure other than your parents, who was nevertheless kind and bucked that stereotype? I have noticed before how children of a certain age tend to gravitate towards any older person they meet or grandparent who is unusually "cool"; a role that parents just can't fill. Or maybe Cora was secretly a remarkable person and somehow you could sense that energy from her, indirectly?
I imagine that a child's very first experiences of the death of someone they knew can be a huge deal, even if that person was only a peripheral presence. So it could be that Cora was the first person who taught you about death, what it means to lose someone.
I always think about this. My husband and I met a guy named John hiking down Yosemite once, we talked to him for probably an hour but we have quoted him regularly for more than a decade now. There have been so many chance encounters like that that have shaped us. I wonder how many people we touch briefly but stay with forever!
Beautifully written, Antonia. I've been sitting here reflecting on my dad, a person who, though he was always there in my life (and continues to be now that he has passed on), remains an utter mystery to me. The reflections are amplified as I am editing the chapter in my book that tells the story of his passing, one my editor said was "one of the most lifeless," and I really don't know what to do with it. As written, I don't think I could get through it in front of an audience without breaking apart so who knows what it is missing. We do indeed all have these people in our lives and it is complicated. I hope I can figure out a way to get it on the page.
Most of our footprints get washed away by the next wave, but sometimes some remain. Random bits of our stories will remain and, if (as in your case, Nia) they illustrate some grander historical trend or theme, get passed along.
Or, more simply, your great-grandchildren will read your books in awe about the world you lived in.
That's the wild thing, isn't it? One hundred years after we transition, nobody will visit our graves. But for a while after that day, we will live on through the indelible markings that we've drawn on each other's souls. It's wild and beautiful.
I loved every word in this essay -- you were (and are) such a precious child. I thought about Vonnegut’s “karasse” in “Cat’s Cradle” -- you, Cora, all of us here, too.
When I was eleven my parents went on a trip to New England without us. A woman named Sandy watched us for a week. I'll be damned if I can remember a single actual detail about Sandy. But I do know she was "unconventional" for suburban Denver. Probably the first unconventional person I might. And even thought it might only have been a week, to this day I believe she lit a spark in me to love and appreciate that which is unconventional, and to seek it out in my own life in whatever ways possible.
So I agree with 100% about short encounters having huge impacts on us. I'm glad you have your Cora...
This is beautiful, Nia; thank you very much. I have goosebumps, and not just because of the New England chill here in Connecticut (though it's much colder back home in Kentucky). This essay resonates with me in ways, to put it in lab medicine parlance, "TNTC," too numerous to count.
Hugs from CT,
Greg
What a beautiful, heart wrenching, emotional, and wonderful essay. I cannot say enough kind words about it, and it's impact on me. Thanks so much and I hope your world, the forests, mountains, and loved ones help you through this time of year. hugs, Paul
It is wonderful to read an essay such as this honoring our ancestors and predecessors. Indeed fortunate when we are given so many spirit guides among people and other living beings.
I am convinced that the only measure of immortality we can be sure of rests within those words of kindness and affection spoken about us long after we've left this world. And while it is up to each of us to plant the seeds of those words while we walk out this life, there are times when we sow unwittingly simply by being authentic and present in those fleeting moments of joy and connection with another human being. It's a little bit like magic.
You have done your beloved Cora a great service. Thank you for sharing.
"Maybe some of the deepest impacts on us come from the people who slip out of this life without leaving many noticeable marks behind." This is true, I think. Along with the influential mentor or grandparent who taught us everything important and inspired by example, there are the people who were just.....in our lives, somewhere. With Cora, I wonder if it had to do with her being an authority figure other than your parents, who was nevertheless kind and bucked that stereotype? I have noticed before how children of a certain age tend to gravitate towards any older person they meet or grandparent who is unusually "cool"; a role that parents just can't fill. Or maybe Cora was secretly a remarkable person and somehow you could sense that energy from her, indirectly?
I imagine that a child's very first experiences of the death of someone they knew can be a huge deal, even if that person was only a peripheral presence. So it could be that Cora was the first person who taught you about death, what it means to lose someone.
Thank you.
I always think about this. My husband and I met a guy named John hiking down Yosemite once, we talked to him for probably an hour but we have quoted him regularly for more than a decade now. There have been so many chance encounters like that that have shaped us. I wonder how many people we touch briefly but stay with forever!
Such a beautiful piece.
Beautifully written, Antonia. I've been sitting here reflecting on my dad, a person who, though he was always there in my life (and continues to be now that he has passed on), remains an utter mystery to me. The reflections are amplified as I am editing the chapter in my book that tells the story of his passing, one my editor said was "one of the most lifeless," and I really don't know what to do with it. As written, I don't think I could get through it in front of an audience without breaking apart so who knows what it is missing. We do indeed all have these people in our lives and it is complicated. I hope I can figure out a way to get it on the page.
Most of our footprints get washed away by the next wave, but sometimes some remain. Random bits of our stories will remain and, if (as in your case, Nia) they illustrate some grander historical trend or theme, get passed along.
Or, more simply, your great-grandchildren will read your books in awe about the world you lived in.
That's the wild thing, isn't it? One hundred years after we transition, nobody will visit our graves. But for a while after that day, we will live on through the indelible markings that we've drawn on each other's souls. It's wild and beautiful.