I just returned from Brazil, which I first visited as an exchange student 45 years ago. At 15, I became the sixth sibling, between two older "sisters," a "brother" my age, and two younger "brothers." At first, communications were challenging. I arrived speaking no Portuguese and Mamae (my host mom) and the younger kids spoke no English. But we got good at charades, and after a month, I started being able to communicate. At Georgetown, I majored in Portuguese, minored International Business, and lived with them for a second summer. Here are the all but one of the siblings more than four decades later, with spouses--except mine, who was the photographer--plus a member of the next generation! The missing brother in the beach photo had just left -- here he is with one of our nieces and me.
I believe in Family Togetherness, Harmony, Laughter, Love, and Sharing . . . but I honestly have never seen them lived out as they are in this Brazilian family. Parents and young adult children openly show affection -- with kisses, caresses, and frank conversations about their relationships and activities--even the escapades they describe on Facebook. They take a summer vacation together every single year, and they gather from three states and sometimes other countries for Christmas. My visit coincided with their 26th consecutive January vacation in a rented beach house large enough for all generations of the huge family to come and stay together, even if some must sleep on sofas or mattresses on the floor. In her 80s, Mamae was recently widowed, yet the tradition continues, and talking about her grief and loneliness is part of the deep communication. I'm not used to that much openness, except during my dozen or so trips to visit this family since my college stay.
I have never been so happy about the fact that my husband Toby swims almost daily. On our first day, the three "sisters" were in the ocean, spaced about 5 meters apart, playing in chest-high waves. The oldest got caught in an undertow and lost her footing. She yelled "Socorro" but Toby didn't understand the call for help. He had his glasses off and couldn't see her flailing arms. As I tried to go help her, I shouted "Toby." Since I usually call him a term of endearment, he knew it was serious. I reached her but wasn't strong enough myself to keep her head above water in her panic. Toby saved her life, literally.
Everyone was grateful. But he didn't have to earn their love or respect by heroics. They'd already accepted him just because he is the man I love. And they love me. Without conditions. As is. It's very simple. And it is a breath of the most delicious sea-breezy air I have ever taken in. Often they laughed with me, teasing me about some strange linguistic misunderstanding. But unlike stateside family gatherings, they didn't razz me disapprovingly about my quirks, my priorities, or even my hair, which was totally out of control in the tropical setting. We talked and hugged and ate and drank and played and howled at jokes, and it reminded me that Everything Belongs.
The feelings overflowed into my marriage, too. Between bookend weekends in Buzios--a lively-after-midnight beach town 125 km outside of Rio de Janeiro-- I traveled with Toby on business. I accompanied him to provide translation services (despite my rusty skills) and to serve as an ambassador of goodwill. The appointments went well but the unforeseen bonus was this: I felt closer to Toby than I have in a long time. We were together more in those ten days that we usually are in more than a month or two. I think my heart was opened up by wonder and awe, and I felt inspired to imitate my host family. It was a spiritually enriching time.
After a farewell lunch and a champagne toast, I departed with tears of joy, gratitude, and saudade -- a longing for the next time we'll be reunited.
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