What Makes a Life

Years ago, my dad looked around my apartment—full of evidence of my life: crystals, symbols, and words that inspired me—and said:

"You're such a Barby."

He was referring to my aunt, my mom's sister, who had changed her last name to Harmony.

He meant it as an insult.

Barby, mind you, was brilliant. She did enormous good in the world. She was deeply connected to the land and spent much of her life working in water conservation. She traveled the world giving talks and was also an astrologer and a psychic.

If he was going to pigeonhole me into an identity, this one wasn't so bad.

What I admired most about Barby wasn't any of that.

It was the way people loved her.

In Eureka Springs, where she lived when she wasn't traveling, she was woven into the fabric of the community. She had deep friendships and strong roots there.

In her final chapter, her friends kept showing up.