What I'm made of
Dear Friends,
I've been learning who the heck the ancestors are, anyways. That word, ancestors, is used so casually by some. By those who, perhaps, are a few generations closer to the truth than my people. Our truth was trodden upon a long time ago.
Trodden. There is a better word. Because the place my mind first finds the ancestors is under my feet. Our soil, the soil that grows my garden, my groceries, my clothing, my vehicles, every thing that I use, this soil is made of the decomposed who came before. They are literally there: my cat, my friend, my mother-in-law, my compost. Living into this takes a lot of breathing. I recommend it. It's a lot to take in.
The place my heart finds the ancestors is in feeling, in dreams, in the stories of elders who have lived knowing the old ones a lot longer than I. My heart finds them and they do guide. They soar above, see the lay of the land, they hold the big picture when I'm scurrying. And here they are, in each thing I touch with hand or foot.
They are here without my naming or knowing them.
Years ago, I stood on a hilltop in Oregon with a branch in my hand and I saw them, a long line of the people behind me, stretching back through time.
They were here for me through the births. I knew them especially through Heron's. They are here for me now as I learn to parent.
Parenting: vast swaths of patience, sanctuaries of forgiveness for after storms (when the patience runs dry), sweet, tender fruit. Every single day and night.
To think, we have done this for eons. I am humbled, again and again.
It is 11:33 am and I join the legions of carers making lunch around the world, for all of time.
Kate.
I've been learning who the heck the ancestors are, anyways. That word, ancestors, is used so casually by some. By those who, perhaps, are a few generations closer to the truth than my people. Our truth was trodden upon a long time ago.
Trodden. There is a better word. Because the place my mind first finds the ancestors is under my feet. Our soil, the soil that grows my garden, my groceries, my clothing, my vehicles, every thing that I use, this soil is made of the decomposed who came before. They are literally there: my cat, my friend, my mother-in-law, my compost. Living into this takes a lot of breathing. I recommend it. It's a lot to take in.
The place my heart finds the ancestors is in feeling, in dreams, in the stories of elders who have lived knowing the old ones a lot longer than I. My heart finds them and they do guide. They soar above, see the lay of the land, they hold the big picture when I'm scurrying. And here they are, in each thing I touch with hand or foot.
They are here without my naming or knowing them.
Years ago, I stood on a hilltop in Oregon with a branch in my hand and I saw them, a long line of the people behind me, stretching back through time.
They were here for me through the births. I knew them especially through Heron's. They are here for me now as I learn to parent.
Parenting: vast swaths of patience, sanctuaries of forgiveness for after storms (when the patience runs dry), sweet, tender fruit. Every single day and night.
To think, we have done this for eons. I am humbled, again and again.
It is 11:33 am and I join the legions of carers making lunch around the world, for all of time.
Kate.
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