Years after the death of my beloved twin Maria I discovered the magnitude of a new world she had been inventing. Maria had died within minutes after a horrific car accident in Mexico. She was 21 years old. I couldn’t touch her things for years.
When I could finally bring myself to open her many notebooks,
I realized the treasure hidden there. Her world of Shumayim lay waiting to be explored,
complete with fascinating landmarks, unique creatures, several languages, and
even a partially completed history.
My discovery burst a new bird of hope and purpose out of my
bones.
I would find a way to introduce Shumayim to the world, so that
others could enjoy its wonder and be inspired by its depth.
Decades later, I have attempted to complete my twin’s
invented world history, as well as rewritten her story into two children’s books, one book
for adults, a mini blog series, and two podcasts.
While working on each of these iterations of my Maria’s
work, I’ve felt inspired and hopeful. But, invariably, upon completion, a sense
of dissatisfaction hangs so heavy on my spirit that I almost immediately set them
aside as “not quite right.”
Weeks or months later, I find myself attempting a new version of her work.
My latest project is the telling of her story for middle-grade readers. This
time, it feels “more right” than all the others. But who knows what the
completion will bring.
Over the years, I’ve come to places of feeling deeply frustrated
by my inability to find a way to share my twin’s work in a truly satisfying way.
If only I had more time in a day. If only I was a better writer – as good as
she had been.
If only she had not died, so that I could be the one helping her to pass on her
amazing creative gift, instead of trying to do it myself.
Sometimes I park in the lot of “if onlys,” but usually only
for a short while. It is too depressing, and I find myself yearning to get on
the road of possibility again.
Most recently I have been considering that perhaps my
constant reworking of my twin’s writing is more the point than completing it.
That is, it’s a way to both stay close to her, and also to express my love for
her.
Throughout our teen years together, Maria and I bonded most
closely over our shared passion for reading and writing. While we can no longer
huddle in our chilly attic room reading Emily Dickinson and John Milton aloud
to one another, followed by hours of silent scribbling in our notebooks, when I
sit down with my twin’s characters and wander into her invented world yet
again, I feel like I am back in that attic again. It is just my twin and I, taking
on the universe with our pens and our dreams.
Although I have long moved on to a full and fulfilling life blessed
with marriage, three children, a career, and active church engagement, I am now
coming to accept that I may always have a corner in my life where I chip away
at my twin’s work.
Perhaps in each of our lives, we need to make peace with a
project we have been reworking forever. Perhaps that reworking is enough, and a
greater act of love than we realize.
Michelle Joy Teigrob lives with her family in Peterborough, Ontario. Her book on grief, Joyfully Star-mapping through Life's Dung-piles, was shortlisted for the 2025 Word Awards. Formerly writing under her married name, Strutzenberger, Michelle is in the process of shifting her writing portfolio to her pen name, Michelle Joy Teigrob.
Thank you, Michelle, for sharing part of your touching story. May God grant you his guidance as you "seek to make peace" with this project you have been working on forever.
ReplyDelete