Ammi Midstokke: Lessons on grafting

Once upon a time, there was a girl at the gym who did not like me. It’s hard to imagine, I’m sure. Mystified by this anomaly of schoolyard-level snubbing, I did what any rejected child does. I tried to win her over with kindness. When that failed, I did the only other reasonable thing: I tried to destroy her in every workout.

Unfortunately, she was savvy to this strategy and tough as nails. Though we never talked about it, I’m pretty sure we both hobbled ourselves several times in the silent competition. There were even a few days I had to walk down the stairs backward. My husband asked what happened – in all my years of racing, he’d never seen me this crippled.

“Mean Sarah was at the gym and I had to do more air squats than her.”

So imagine my surprise when my dad casually mentioned my stepbrother was dating a girl from my town who knew me from the gym.

“I hope it’s not Mean Sarah!” I said.

“Yeah, Sarah! That’s her name.”

For perspective on just how conniving the gods are, my stepbrother lives in Quincy, California, and I live in Sandpoint. The only reason they would manipulate this impractical union would be to spite me. It’s a two-day drive! I know, because I just drove it to attend their wedding.

It’s an odd thing. I’ve spent years of my life trying to navigate separation from relatives who are unhealthy for me. Was I just making space for a new dysfunctional relationship all this time? Is there some spiritual law of personal growth that says we must maintain a specific level of interpersonal conflict?

I think early on in the therapeutic process, our counselors try to lace reality with a little optimism. Like maybe we’ll weed out the noxious people of our world or build a shield of “damn therapy grammar” (as the untherapied might refer to it) or develop a toolbox of gadgets like “boundaries” to make us impervious to the shenanigans of the shoddy.

Meanwhile, we’re hoping to find that common ground or the unattachment Buddhists brag of, or at least enough of both to tolerate the intolerable.

Somewhere between bruiser workouts and a wedding, Sarah came over to my house for dinner. I assumed it would not be appropriate to continue referring to her as “Mean Sarah” when she was a guest in my house. The only thing that would have been more awkward is if I’d demanded a burpee war before the meal.

For years, people had asked me if we knew each other because we were so alike (which is a thing people hate to hear, mind you). What I discovered about Sarah, though, is that we’re not just alike. We’re kindred spirits.

Which is good because of all my siblings, I secretly like my stepbrother the most. I’m probably not supposed to say that, but he taught me how to make soup from scratch and salad dressings and what unconditional acceptance looks like. His huge family of aunts and uncles and cousins are all like that. It’s why my dad fell in love with one of them and grafted our family to a branch of their broad and beautiful tree.

My new sister, she rides motorcycles and knits and gardens. She’s years ahead of me in convincing the men in her life to let her raise chickens and livestock, a mentor for me on the matter, no doubt. She has tattoo stamina that would make a sailor look weak. She likes to hunt and camp and grind in the great outdoors. And if you ever need someone to be mean, believe me, you want her on your team.

Here’s another thing I learned from Sarah: We don’t have to like everyone or be everyone’s friend. Relationships of depth and trust are to be earned, not assumed.

On a Saturday afternoon in the mountains of northern California, another grafting took place. To a backdrop of wooden slopes and a sprawling ranch, I watched a circle of women twirl and swirl and flash undies as they unwittingly performed some kind of welcoming ritual to the raucous melodies of a three-string band. The sun had dropped behind the ridge and the spirit of the evening was rising with the gibbous moon. The bride spun her floral gown across the lawn dance floor. And the new branch took hold.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com