#143
The ancestors are here at dinner in the quiet house. I welcome them in with a drink and a wink. They surface in times I need them, or, when I stop to remember. A note to myself to make the shrine, the trinkets of the past that I carry around with me that remind me of them, who they were, what they smelled like, how they carried themselves, what their eyes told me. A small shrine. The ancestors. It’s the only belief that I have, instead of the heaven and hell which can easily be where we all are now, it’s their memories that stay around longer. I can access them.
I miss them and recently in a session with H I was telling her that I especially miss their quietness. Their ability to just be, and not ask questions. I miss just showing up without notice and taking a nap on the living room floor under the ceiling fan while Grandma sat and read in her chair. Grandpa sometimes asleep on the sofa, or, out in the forest doing forest things.
I’m at a place where I would gladly welcome their insight, their wisdom, their thoughts about what I’m doing because I feel they would hold something that I don’t yet see or think. When I was young and they were around I rarely asked for their insight, but found it anyway in different ways they lived their lives. The way they treated nature, for example. Or, their kindness towards strangers & neighbours, without the hint of religion.
But now things feel strained. My life feels sticky and syrupy, I feel held in, held down, and I want their advice on how to un-stick things. Haven’t you been here before, grandma? What did you do?
Maybe what I want to hear are regrets and that’s what our dinner conversation turns to. What did they regret? Something you did or didn’t do? I think about this alot, maybe my birthday spurred it on. I don’t want ten years to pass and for me to look at this moment and regret not doing what seemed right but a risk. Maybe you’ll be spared the choice, Grandpa says. Maybe.