Tag Archives: grandmother

a child pointing to vulnerable flesh that thought it was invincible

 

Primula

I have not dreamed this flower.
It just is.
In the midst of pandemic compliance
we are still part of spring in the north,
or autumn in the south.

As I near grandmotherhood for a second time, I continue exploring my legacy.
My father used to say there were a lot of people walking around Toronto
with the ass out of their pants because they didn’t get the trump out.

One day, aged, he woke from a nap in a wistful state and spoke of his dream:
a little sow in heat that he is leading on a string.
He walks it to the market downtown but just can’t do it, can’t enter that space.

He is speaking in an Irish accent with a softness and a fondness I have never seen.
I research the original occupant of our old house:
a butcher from County Tyrone, once the town’s mayor.
I find old pictures of the downtown Square
where there used to be a market on the grounds,
long before my father’s days here.
Carriages, fences, long dresses.

My hurry up legacy is the message that violence is so expensive.

Right now the sundering at birth is not so much moving from breathing water to air
as entering a world where one is made to chose between the mother and the father.
Moment one, and even before, the beliefs of our ancestors and their ancestors fill us.
Ancient systems made people things.
Boy children were made things that would own things.
Children and women were made things to be owned.
Men as things were made to trade people as things, made to corral allies,
made to make families tribes of deals made and broken,
empires of loyalty and enslavement.

The first breaths are of the air filled with the idea of people as things.
The first breaths are filled with the fallacy that one must chose love for the mother
or love for the father,
fallacy because it is not love in either case when people are treated as things.
This is the sundering, the system of the false bottom choice.

We are all born in the middle of the story of things.
This story keeps us blind to the story.
The heart of the child knows there is a false bottom story,
but needs others who will get to the bottom
to be freed from the empire of things.
The emperor has no clothes,
and the energy of the people goes either into trying so hard
to believe his clothes are as fine as he says,
or into trying to find others who, like the child,
will say he is naked and foolish.

A house of cards.
The world turned into a game of cards.
Getting the trump out is only playing the game.
Taking the little sow to market is part of waking up in the middle of a story
and not recognizing the ancestors’ voices.
The stories fill the air of birthing rooms.
To heal the wound from belief that we are things,
we need to see we are the ancestors telling stories.
The new story needs to serve the child, not the empire.

The first flower flowers in the north or south at its season.
It just is being itself.
This writing is more than a trump card.
It is a quiet trumpet like the opening of a primula in tune with the coming of a child.
It is a child pointing to vulnerable flesh that thought it was invincible,
that thought it was separate from nature and was a thing,
but is a being.

Hear them with our bodies

On a bench overlooking the river
longing brings me to the desired sensation
of a hand on my back,
a grandmother’s hand giving comfort and reassurance.

Looking at the sky
I imagine a grandfather and a grandmother in conversation.
They are consulting about what to do.
They are equal in presence and attitude and respect.
They are from a time and place where there is no difference
in value between them.
This I have never seen.
It is the kind of communion I need and feel the world needs.
They are communing over the river valley,
above the early spring tops of trees below me,
this valley’s blanket of dark grey lace over wool.
There is hope in the tips of some of the branches,
red, green, beginning.
River threads
and tree branch webs are communing
with the lungs of the world and all the people,
everything breathing in its element.

The grandmother and grandfather murmur in the sky,
on the banks of the river,
over the town.
As we breathe we can hear them with our bodies.

After the paint dries

CCF07112012_00009

Reveal

I am intrigued by the content and feel of recent dreams and by some of their fragments and titles:
France with Gramma at tidal flats
Woman asserts breasts.
Related to their teacher
The woman is a bottle.
The chrome matrix is understood as a whole.

At this moment the most interesting element in recent dreams is the repeated appearance of  ‘many people busy working to solve a mystery’. The people are competent and accomplished, and while I am fretting and feeling incompetent and identifying as a ‘problem’, these characters are going about their business.

This morning’s dream fragment seems to point toward an impending completion and indicates an action I might take for the moment:

People are working both together and independently to solve a mystery or make something happen. They are taking their work seriously, but are not being serious, just focused.

A man and someone else are attending to something after all the action of investigating and solving.

Looking at the object before me I can see that we have to wait for the paint to dry before we can see clearly. As the paint dries its surface changes so the finished state is revealed only then. Realizing this I respond with intentional waiting. I feel my state change from seeking to focused waiting. I understand this is what is required and it gives me energy so that I am both alert and calm.

In the dream and upon waking it feels so good to be clear that waiting is the thing, that something has been applied in order to accomplish something, a renovation, or building, or installing. And that ‘waiting to see’ is required to discover the condition of the ‘thing’ in order to act again. Far from feeling passive and undirected this waiting has energy and rightness.

And I can’t help but think that those people working away in the background are the productive parts of me I am becoming aware of!

As I write I think of the three stages of creative process: research, production and fallow. I am often uncertain about which phase I am in. In the past months I have ‘felt’ that I am in research phase. I would like to be more intentional in my creative work, consciously identifying and entering phases and using my time and energy in a more balanced way (and not ‘fretting’ about what I should be doing). In this dream fragment the ‘reveal’ promised after the paint dries could be the culmination of the ‘research’ pursued by various characters/processes in the dream state over the course of weeks. Contrary to the idiom: “As exciting as watching paint dry,” this moment has great momentum; the waiting is full of purpose because I can actually see the surface changing before my eyes. At least I hope that’s what’s happening!
Perhaps the ‘thing’ for the next production phase will be revealed.
Well, I shall ‘see’ soon enough.