When at last my grandmother flew away this summer, she left a trail of feathers behind. I collected as many as I could, put them in the box with all the other things that get abandoned by death: books and letters, journal pages, old greeting cards and photos, scraps of notes scribbled during sleepless nights. I went through them all on my knees, laid them out on the carpet until they became a map of sorts, a survey of her last few decades. She was a woman who believed in resurrection and a someday/someplace where everything was eternally right, but she wanted all of it for the here and now. This longing turned her inward, kept her from moving forward. In the last years of her life, it consumed her. She threaded every conversation through her obsession with these yet-unfulfilled promises and the confidence that there was a secret key to prayer she was about to uncover that would bring them into being. In the box I found the remnants of her attempts to reach heaven, scribbled more and more incoherently onto the backs of envelopes, insurance statements, and clipped articles about the moral decline of the nation.

After she was gone, I found that I could navigate the sorrow of her loss, but I did not know what to do with the other, deeper sadness that emerged, this awareness that it is possible to burn with need and never become fire, to be a match that flares and yet extinguishes itself before it reaches the wick. It frightens me to think that an entire life could be spent yearning.

I don’t know what my grandmother would say to this depiction of her; I only have my memories and these feathers she left, already beginning to lose their vibrancy. This version of her, the one that I am wrestling with, is not her whole story, I know. It is tangled with my own stories, my longings and regrets. It is strange to think that in the years to come my mind will whittle her down even more, until she becomes some slim aggregate of the two of us, what I understood about myself inextricably linked to the life I watched her live.

We are stories within stories within stories and maybe all of them are true.

I’ve been thinking a lot about narrative frameworks lately, the ways in which what we believe about the world and our belonging to it are partly inherited and partly developed. Every day we see the collision of these frameworks happening around us, politically, culturally, personally. That space of impact feels so untenable and violent to those experiencing it. How do you come to consensus when the very root of your perception of events is different than your neighbor’s?

One thing I am convinced of, those spaces where beliefs collide can’t be traversed with accusation and negativity. They are navigable only by connection and empathy, on both sides. We need the conviction that all walls are breachable somewhere, even if only to share some small talk or the same neighborhood.

There were so many things to find inspiring about my grandmother. Before the world got so confusing for her, we connected over food, art, love for our family. I wanted to be understood as I was, to be known inside my own story instead of hers, but this is what she wanted as well. Those points of connection were what we could manage to offer each other and that is enough. What I will learn from my relationship with her is that my children and grandchildren will have their own stories about the world, that they will know and understand it as a different place from the one I know. I will be reminded to keep letting my walls down, to believe that they are wise and good and I can enjoy them on their terms. But for myself, I hope I will have the courage to set myself on fire, to let myself burn and burn, all the way to the end of the wick, nothing held back. That’s the least I can do for her.   

 It's been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve missed everyone. <3

Here’s a little list of things that I’m enjoying or thinking about right now:

~Elemental // Kortney Garrison

My dear friend has gifted the world with her first chapbook of poetry. All her work is so precise and gentle. I’m a big fan.  Find it here.

~Just finished my annual read of The Haunting of Hill House // Shirley Jackson, this time with the lovely APS folks.

~Finally getting around to Ali Smith’s quartet, starting with Autumn.

~ Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath// Heather Clark

I finally finished this meticulous and eye-opening biography of Plath and it affected me deeply. She was so much more relatable in ways I didn’t expect, all the while being astoundingly talented and driven. Her confidence in her right to speak and her willingness to be misunderstood artistically taught me so much.

~Transforming Narrative Waters // Accidental Gods podcast with Ruth Taylor

A lovely synchronicity that found me this week. Ruth Taylor talking about how to frame stories to reach across divides.

Which led me to this discussion of using fiction to make real change:

~ No More Fairy Stories: Writing the Way Through One Tale at a Time// Accidental Gods podcast with Denise Baden

~ Watching the absolutely stunning In the Mood For Love.  

~ Making this to get my daily calcium and celebrate the cozy part of the year.

~ Also eyeing these high protein gluten free rolls:

~ The lovely Amanda is back, sharing her generous and smart weekly meal plans.

 Do let me know how you are doing and what you are loving right now if you have the time.

Thanks for being here!

xoxo

tonia