Whether it’s the of the same DNA kind or by chance kind, or chosen kind, “family” is life, it’s glue, it’s essential for human survival for more purposes than biology.
Yesterday marked over a decade of family picnics where more of the attendees are non-blood related than those that are. Over a decade of first dates, births, deaths, divorces, moves, illness, financial trouble, graduations, weddings and hairstyles; all the intricacies of what we call life shared, hugged-out, cried over and smiled at over some of the best bar-b-q, peach cobbler and some smuggled adult beverages.
Our picnics have become an exercise in watching the kids grow taller than us as my generation slowly moves into the middle; those that have both parents and children to take care of, while managing careers and households. No matter what’s gone on throughout the year, our picnic is one day, to just be, to breathe, to hug, to smile and gorge on home-cooked delights.
The children climb trees, run races, build sand castles, throw, bump and toss whatever they can and ride anything with wheels. It’s their time to be with “real” and “play” cousins and set aside status, school rivalries, competing sports, and worries about the upcoming school year.
It’s our time to be raw and recharge, to remember who we are at the core and to move forward one more year on this journey we are assigned to.
With promises to call, text, and post, hugs that for many will be the only one from/for that person for another year, a last burnt marshmallow and one final sweep of the picnic area, we return to our cars, our homes, our cities. The primal energy, love and strength absorbed in one day with “family,” does wonders for the soul. It’s a gift. My treasure. My family.
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