Grandmother

Two nights ago I almost had the candle stable in my mind and myself grounded when I saw my grandmother flash behind my eyes and jerked from my attempted meditations. Something wasn’t right. I lie back down and try to focus on my breathing again ignoring the fact that my grandmother is in hospice care and probably won’t make it past the holidays. This is not a normal reaction for a granddaughter. I like to say I’m indifferent, but really, if I were indifferent, I wouldn’t be writing this now while she lies on her death bed.

She is not a nice woman. Growing up, my memories are colored with uncomfortable silences, disapproval, and illogical rules – almost cruel to young children who do not know better or can’t fully comprehend. Now, as an adult, I understand, and I loathe her more for it. She frequently accused me of things that I did not do, and then never apologized when the truth was clear. The day I stopped loving my grandmother was the day I started protecting my sister. It’s silly in retrospect, but in the memories of childhood, events are bigger and mean so much more than adults can even start to remember.

My sister had opened a new coke to drink and poured it over ice. After three sips, she left it and it became watered down so much that later when forced to drink it, I gagged and vomited. My grandmother saw that my sister had ‘wasted’ half a coke and told her that if she didn’t drink all of it she would be in trouble. A dire threat to a sensitive eight year old, who had a grandmother that would follow through. Heather cried saying that it tasted horrible and that she couldn’t do it as my grandmother stood there watching silently. There was no compassion in her eyes, so when she left the room, I drank as much as I could choke down and dumped the rest as I threw up brown liquid.

A small incident to an adult or to those who have experienced far worse from family members, but it was in that moment that I realized my grandmother didn’t love me or my sister. There were other situations throughout my life that reinforced what I learned that day, such as the cabbage showdown, the smoking inquisition, and the broken ballet slippers, but this event was the beginning. Over the years, I tried to separate myself from this woman in order to avoid awkward, uncomfortable, disappointing situations where it would be proven yet again that she didn’t love us. I chose not to hug her unless forced. I chose not to stay in the same room when she visited. When I could finally drive, I rarely saw her at all. I was twenty-two when I learned more about my father’s childhood and began to hate her.
So, now I write this and think about the woman who has lost her mind and can’t remember me. I want to forgive her, but I can’t. She is a broken woman who never recovered, and I can’t think past her abandoning my aunt and her best friend on the side of the road because they were giggling too much in the back seat, or how she inadvertently forced my father to drop out of high school to join the Marines to support his brothers and sister.

Even though she wouldn’t recognize me, I’m afraid to visit her – afraid of her judgment and my inability to forgive. I’m afraid her mental illness is hiding somewhere in my genetic code waiting until my mind begins to slip. I hope her death comes painlessly. That is all the compassion I have.

Circles, Full Moons, and White Candles

I’m sore from the roots I slept on two nights ago. I think. Or I’m sore from the bone-brittle cold of camping in November. The pain in my hands and feet came close to encouraging me to find a local hotel room, which I would have hated doing because I feel I should be able to rough it like the rest of them…

It was so cold that all I could think of was fighting and arguing, and blaming other people for my frozen state. Drinking didn’t seem to help and then I became dehydrated AND cold. Friday night was a loss, which symbolically ended when Chris broke my ceramic mug.

Saturday evening saw me snuggled up and planted in front of a Bardic competition, complete with bonfire and beer. Many talented people with more bravery than I could even think about trying to squeeze past my stage fright. The moon was almost completely full and the weather was dropping, but I wasn’t cold… and I’m sure I seemed high to those around me. I was feeding off of their energies, the songs, the drum circles; I danced around the fields, found broken weapons and used them as blessing wands to encourage more good will. The stars and meteorites were amazing. The tail of the Leonides could still be seen last night.

I started to see circles and spirals last night – not only in my own life, but in the lives of my friends. I could almost visibly see the spiral cords connecting them/us, regardless of whether they were aware of it and how they felt. All I could do was step back, try not to absorb too much energy and watch the dances follow their natural progression. I feel like I’m designing my own world. Or I did last night while I was stone sober, getting high on peoples’ good moods, and song. Can you tell I’m still really tired? So…

Falling into bed. (almost face-planting the keyboard is a sure sign that one should be in bed. )

last night's dream

It started out as my normal reoccurring dream of walking in a modern village with medieval architecture. I’m enjoying the sights but looking for someone. I go to the pub, take pictures, etc. There are cars, but overall the place is one where people prefer walking. The overall feeling of the dream is pleasure, but in a general way. I enjoy being here. I can feel the notches in the stone walls, hear the leaves crackle as I walk near the cemetery, and I can breathe in the cool, damp air. It’s always early evening when I’m here. The lights are filling the side streets with warmth. I am both visitor and local. I meet the person I am supposed to meet, and we enjoy the rest of the day taking in the sights and laughing, getting high off of each other’s company.

This is where it changes.

I go into a shower room covered with sienna colored ceramic tile feeling the nervous excitement pimple my skin. I feel like shouting to relieve some pressure, but I giggle instead, my muscles clenching in response to my forced control. The room is small and warm, almost like a sauna.

There is a half length mirror to my dexter that I only notice once I start to undress. The mirror is framed by a gold braided floral wreath. I look up and see my reflection. She has darker hair and eyes and smaller breasts, but even with the changes, she is me – an alternate me. The look in her eyes makes me uncomfortable. I can’t think of the right words to describe it. There was need, control, pride, a harshness wrapped in sharp sexuality. There was nothing soft or sweet or playful looking back at me. She wasn’t a reflection of the person who entered the shower room, and she wasn’t in there waiting for me either. She appeared exactly when I looked at her. She wanted something. She didn’t scare me as much as worry me because her stare told me she could not be reasoned with or swayed. Then I woke up.