. . . the survey says

Grandpa’s farm, home of six girls one boy and more than enough grandkids to assemble a pick up soccer match on a humid Sunday afternoon. The farm was located in rural Minnesota - - about an hour south of Minneapolis. Neighboring towns bore such fun names as Shockapee, New Prauge, and Mankato.  A pothole filled, dirt road lead up to the driveway. How many knees and elbows did that road claim from a bicycle spill? Only the road could tell.

A stand of conifers lined the approach keeping the dust from the road away from the house. How many kites and radio controlled airplanes snagged in those branches? Only the trees could tell.  Grandma’s kitchen garden -- carefully tended -- proudly displayed vegetables, roses and  the target of watermelon seed spitting contests.

On summer weekends the farm would be flooded with endlessly playing grandkids. Swarms of cousins cavorting, carousing and carrying on.  Most of the cousins lived in the area and those close to my age seemed more like siblings than relations.  Although, there were a few -- like Amilee and her brothers - - we saw once every couple of years. Only three years apart in age, but in my  memory she seemed so much younger. Maybe because she was petite and fair like grandma and I was tall and dark like grandpa.

Spring 1987 was my last visit to the  farm.  I was sixteen.  Unbeknownst to me, being separated from the farm would also mean being separated from my sense of family.  My parents sent me to boarding school and subsequently moved across country to Washington state.  Grandma and Grandpa began trading the harsh Minnesota winters for the sun in southern Texas. It wasn’t long before the farm was sold.  

My daughter was born and a difference in philosophical and religious beliefs took a toll on an already strained relationship. Eventually, it was healthier for myself and daughter to disassociate from my mother – and thereby, my entire family.  It seems every family has one, the Black Sheep, a fleece laid upon my shoulders.  Life is sometimes  ironic, with a family as large in number as mine to feel like an orphan.  Occasional calls with my brothers on holidays and birthdays; otherwise, it was my daughter and I. 

With passing years, Grandma and Grandpa found it more difficult to travel.  One last family reunion to which everyone was invited – even Black Sheep.  I briefly toyed with the idea of attending, then decided no.  If you asked me how it happened, I couldn't tell you. Ask Amilee, she probably can.  This much I do know: my brother, Amilee, the reunion,  a chance conversation, and an email.

Imagine my surprise --  fifteen years, three thousand miles, and two blocks away – Amilee, petite and fair.  

After decade an a half of sporadic and sterile contact with my family what was I to do with this bubbly, warm email? An invitation to meet up for coffee? In the end, Minnesota nice won out and I agreed. We met at a neighborhood coffee shop.  I recognized her at once - - petite and fair like grandma. Hot tea for her and an Americano with room for me.

One meeting lead to another and before long, we had struck up a friendship.  We laughed together, we cried together.  Graduations, birthdays, holidays, and of course the Aunts – all six of them reaching out, making contact. Slowly, the edges of isolation eroded  and were replaced with a feeling of . . .a family! Family to lean on, family to celebrate with, family to play with, family to belong to.

Today, Amilee and I snuck out in the middle of the day -- she needed shoes and I a hug. Here we sit, warmed by the sun and the love between us.  Cousins.  She with her hot tea and I with an Americano with room. 

Minnesota, the land of ten thousand lakes --- or that at least is where they stopped counting.  I grew up there.  Grandpa had a farm 60 miles south of Mpls and one of my uncles had a lake cabin north.  A few times a year, our family would be invited up for swimming, boating, fishing and general carrying on.  My uncle had three boats, one sail boat, one fishing/skiing boat and what we called a 'fliver.'

The fliver was a fiberglass jobby that I'm pretty sure was hand made.  It was small, light and the over all shape is reminiscent of a swamp boat with the low scooping front and ability to fly (or so it seemed at that time) over the water.  After a weekend of playing on the lake, the boats would be in terrible condition.  The closing ceremony for the weekend was for the 'big' cousins to take the fliver out and wash it down.  A joyous, rowdy and wishful event; for, I was always just a little too young to go out.  Except for that one time. . . .

That one time, the last time I would go out in that boat.  It was joyous, it was rowdy and it capsized with me pinned below the overturned boat.  Lake Alexander was very weedy and the tangles from the seaweed grabbed my legs and arms like tentacles.  I remember it clearly.  If it wasn't for my waist long hair and a determined Aunt, I would have drowned that day.  That was the day I discovered my fear of water.

The fear of water stayed with me and limited my outdoor activities. Trips to Hawaii, the ocean, lake resorts, water parks -- I'd sit on the sidelines --  watching, wishing, fearing.  As my daughter grew, I wanted to make sure she didn't inherit that fear.  Swimming Lesson.  She was a natural, beautiful swimmer. And I'd sit on the sidelines -- watching, wishing, fearing.

Twenty two years of watching, wishing, fearing.  Then one day it occurred to me, the only thing keeping me from enjoying the water was the 'fearing'.  Take swimming lessons.  And I did. The first lesson, a grown adult woman stood on the edge of the pool with tears streaming down my face as the instructor walked through our agenda.  "You don't have to get in the water you know. We can take as long as you like." 

I held my breath and jumped in. 

Three years later, I swim every chance I get.  I think of it as a treat.  I've been able to teach others.  Not long ago, a stranger made the observation that I had a beautiful, natural looking stroke.  I smiled.

I learned something very important from those swimming lessons.  Fear is self limiting.  When I catch myself saying, I'm scared or afraid or any other synonym

  for fear, I take a deep breath. embrace, and use the fear as a cue to jump in. Fear is self-limiting.  I've used that statement with bravado and lived that statement with a smile for all the experiences and relationships resulting from not allowing fear to limit.

This week, I experienced a life event equivalent to near drowning. I was afraid for the change and for how my life would change.  And then, I reminded myself -- fear is self limiting and I've had swimming lessons.

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