My Ancestors’ Spirit
An excerpt from last week’s morning pages:
The wind comes sweeping through the trees like a freight train. The sound intrigues me. The way the tree tops dance and sway hypnotizes me. A lesson about turbulent times - staying deeply rooted without being rigid. Bending and remaining flexible without being blown over and swept away. I wonder how long they can endure it. Storm after storm. Some are clearly weakened and worn. Losing branches and pieces of themselves, yet hanging on. A mentor of mine spoke recently about us all having an end date. It harkens the famous Mary Oliver quote, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I wonder then, if we’ll always stay here in this home we’ve been in for the last couple of years. Like with anything else, on hard days, it’s easy to take it all for granted. The woods, the dark, the quiet, the peaceful morning sunrise, the beauty of this place. And I think of how I would long for this place if we were to leave. The cliffs I drive by every day, the mist rising from the water. Life is different here and it’s still new. I don’t have deeply planted roots here like others do, but I have my ancestors’ spirit. Traveling to unfamiliar places to find another way of life.
It’s my grandmother’s birthday today. She was born in late February. A Pisces. Josepina or Josephine or Josie or Jo as she was called my many, beloved by all who knew her. Her parents emigrated from Italy and dealt with one hardship and tragedy after another, somehow surviving storm after storm. By the time I came along, she and my grandfather shared a two family with her brother who grew the most delicious cherry tomatoes in the backyard. Josie’s main dwelling was the kitchen, the largest room in the place. I watched her make fresh pasta and other food I regretfully refused to eat. I helped her make sheet pan pizza. Etched in my memory is the spoon we used to spread the yellow oil before picking up the fork to puncture holes throughout the dough. Next came the sauce and the spoon again. Then a sprinkling of minced garlic. I’ll withhold the secret of the cheese in honor of her. I made it from memory the other day and the kids devoured it. I think she must be so delighted that her great-grandchildren are enjoying her pizza. Food was love, and she loved deeply.
She loved the smell of lilacs, and I think of her every time I take in their aroma. Sometimes I smell the bloom of them when they aren’t in front of me, and I know she’s around. One of my earliest memories with her took place under a massive oak tree in front of her house. I remember how the branches swayed in the air, the leaves waving down on me as I looked up from my resting place in her lap. Dappled sunlight found its way through the mass of green to my face. I was mesmerized by its beauty and comforted by its rhythm. Years later, the feeling I had the day I discovered it had been cut down was nothing less than betrayal. I was devastated that I hadn’t been consulted on this. I remember hearing someone say something about the roots being an issue.
And I'm back here, in the present, looking at the trees again, thinking about my roots. Remembering her, remembering her parents’ spirit, remembering that big, great, oak tree. And I will carry these memories on with me. I will continue to live with my ancestors’ spirit. “Nothing gold can stay.” I will bend and sway. I will weather storms. I will support and be supported. I will be loved and love deeply. Because it’s true, that we all have an end date. And it’s that dash in the middle of the year we were born and the year we die that holds it all.
This early part of my life with my grandmother, all those memories seemed so far away for so long. And as I began writing about her, I realized how much I missed this woman and how very connected I still feel to her, how many pieces of me are wrapped up in time spent with her. I felt a sense of grief for not being able to share a conversation with her as a grown adult with kids of my own. And I recalled all of these experiences with her in a new way which emphasized new lessons for me to learn or remember. The larger loss of both my parents in my twenties has taken up the most room in the grief chamber of my heart. It felt good to acknowledge the loss of my grandmother, what I remember about her, and what I miss.
I wonder if there is someone from your childhood or another part of your life who you felt profoundly connected to, or maybe a relationship that greatly affected you in some positive way. I’d invite you to consider writing about them or to them. A letter or a paragraph of what you remember most. The way they made you feel. Something they taught you. Words they’d want to share with you on your difficult days. Take some time to honor the people who were part of your story. They would love to serve a purpose in your life today.