I’ve found myself at a few emotional brinks lately. I tend to get there often. I stretch myself out until I have nothing left and usually end up in some kind of self-induced puddle. It’s not fun there. It’s desolate. Empty. I usually shed a lot of ugly tears in these spaces. But I’ve found that it’s here that the well usually starts to fill again. And sometimes, if I’m lucky enough, I’ll have help from outside sources. Today was one of those days. I don’t speak much about my loved ones. Or how much they’ve impacted my life. They get tucked away in a space that’s my own. It’s a sacred space. A space that holds time that seems to drip like maple syrup. Memories that smell so sweet that it only takes one whiff to send you cascading back.
My grandmother passed away a few years back. She was an artist. A gardener. A master cook. And just and all around solid woman. She had an air about her. It was calm and collected. It brings tears to my eyes. She was fiercely feminine yet embodied a cool masculinity that I was always drawn to. She had a way about her that just made you feel taken care of, watched over and protected. I remember running rampant with my cousins thru her house when we were younger. My finger tips scaling the cool walls that housed dozens of family photographs and push pinned polaroids. My toes sank deep into that plush evergreen carpet. The colors that reflected the pines around their outside pond. The pines that grew up tall like we did.
We lost touch over the years and I’ve found my adult self seeking her more. I don’t doubt that we have these ones watching over us. That they are still somehow, intrinsically apart of us. They come in the most unexpected and uncanny ways. Whether it be the passerby on the street with that same peculiar spark in their eye, the scent of a perfume that you’ve long forgotten or in a forgiving tone of a strangers sentiment. I think in the midst of our struggles there is always a space of peace. A dwelling.
We just have to have the capacity to look for it.