To my beautiful, doe eyed sister. The sister that no-one notices, the one who sits quietly in the corner, who tries to fit into the conversation, but is miles behind and eons ahead of the minds of those around her. She tries, at times, to understand what is going on, how they think, and why they think that way, but I can see that it never really makes sense to her. Her mind moves along different channels, she has a different set of values; she belongs to a long lost generation. A generation that came before the people who cut through this great country in a mindless, courageous charge for independence. A generation that moved with the world, that took only what it needed, that kept to itself; that was as close to nature as the creatures it hunted for sustenance. She would have been at home with these people. She is not the type to kill for sport; she does not understand the people who crash through the woods with heavy feet and loud, echoing voices. No, she is the one who is more at home in the green world of a summer wood than in a house, who is comfortable climbing high in a tree to get closer to the sun yet is nervous and out of place in a skyscraper. She can walk silently through a leafy forest, swim like an otter, ride a horse over a green pasture, her hair and its mane the same color, whipping in the wind. She can make a meal from the wild things of the forest, find true north without trying, and speak intelligently about the different kinds of birds that sing freely in her presence. She is not the one who will tame an animal, she is the one who will let it be itself, and asks only that it allow her to share its domain.
If you would take the time to get to know her, to speak to her one-on-one, to look into her old, innocent eyes, you would find that she has a sharp mind, that she is knowledgeable about the things that matter to her, and that when she listens to you she understands your heart better than your words.
To this sister, I would love to express that I am trying to understand her, that I am trying to process who she is. I cannot do justice to what I feel when I try to tell her. I can only rest in the knowledge that she can see the love and respect that I have for her in my heart.