Well played Grandma, well played.

Mum posted a reminder on facebook today that not only is this weekend the festival of Imbolc and St. Brigit's day but that it is also the source of her mother's middle name. My maternal grandmother was born in 1914 on January 31st. Custom in Ireland at that time was to name your child with the closest religious feast day (perversely, the roman catholic church was the original culture jammer). So on January 31st, 1914 an infant girl named Marie Brigid O'Sullivan launched into this world for a much too short life. She died of skin cancer in her 50s after a lifetime of tanning (which is still a strange fascination of women in Ireland, despite all evidence that this practice leads to skin cancer). My grandmother was also the victim of torture known as symphysiotomy. The long term effects on her health due to this horrific procedure we might never know but she got sicker and sicker after each of 6 live births and had to remain hospitalized for a very long time after her last child was born in 1957 (her pelvis had to be rebroken since it hadn't healed correctly after the procedure).

I have written about my maternal grandmother before. She was a fantastic storyteller (or in Irish, seanchai). How do I know this? Well one of my earliest memories involve her telling me the story of the food growing in her backyard.  She was dying and Mum went back with me and my infant sister to spend a few months with her. We were the only grandchildren she ever got to meet. I am the eldest of 18 grandchildren (and a still growing posse of great grandchildren and two great great grandchildren) on my maternal side so there is a huge gap in our lives due to this loss. I remember her pointing to the fruit trees and her telling me that they were planted in that location in order to maximize the sun they would get. Grandma literally planted the seed of my food justice activism because I remember being fascinated with how much thought went into something like the fruit I enjoyed eating.

Despite her early death one particular story of hers continued on in my life and has had a lasting legacy. I had an early talent for mathematics and was often told the story of how my grandfather was also gifted in math and had scored in the top 10% of the national Irish exams in math. Alas, as the only son he had to forgo studies in the subject in order to support his mother and sisters after his dad died just as he was finishing secondary school. As a child, Mum was given strong encouragement by both her parents for learning to do arithmetic in her head so she wouldn't be stuck serving tables. Grandma often told her the story about her dad as an explanation for the talent she was displaying. This encouragement helped her to excel in maths and is was what enabled her to have a successful career as a corporate accountant. And this encouragement also helped me excel in maths and I felt so proud obtaining the mathematics degree in 1990 that my dear grandfather was unable to obtain.

So imagine our surprise when in 1996, after my grandfather passed away, we were all back in my mum's childhood home in Ireland clearing out some bedroom cupboards and we came upon Grandpa's Leaving Certificate. His standing in Maths? Ordinary level/pass.

So today dear Grandma, I am having a good chuckle in your memory as I unpack into a new house and hang up my two framed degrees (one math, one engineering) obtained via a story you told to your daughter and that she passed along to me. In the parlance of today's world:  well played grandma, well played.

Shattered Family Ties

Daughter is home today after 22 days with Mother. September 1st is move in day at her university.  I have exactly one month left of her at home.

I continue to sift, sort, trash, recycle and gift the possessions in my house.

Yesterday I opened a package that Mother has yet to bring back with her to Newfoundland.  It was the below picture, in a frame.

I held the picture for a good few minutes.  This woman has been dead for nearly twenty years.  She is my aunt by marriage.  She married Mother's 3rd brother and they were the only extended family that we had in Canada and we spent a little bit of time with them throughout my childhood.  Sister and I were flower girls in their wedding.  They came to the big life events of good catholic households:  first communion, confirmation, wedding, etc.  This particular uncle was legendary in the family since he started smoking by eight years of age and started charging interest to his older siblings for loans at about the same time.  He is now a senior banker and has resided mostly in South and Latin American countries since shortly after his wife passed on, suddenly.  He quit smoking years ago and used to run marathons with XHusband.  I believe he still runs.

I thought about how I'd love to have known this woman, my aunt, throughout my adult life.  She passed away before I was comfortably esconced in adulthood - I was merely 25 years of age and living in a town about 2 hours from where she lived.  My memories of her are of a woman that had a fabulous sense of humour and a wry take on life.  I believe I would have enjoyed her immensely if I had been given the chance to live closer to her as I raised Daughter.

And then it hit me.  The loss of this woman was preceded by the loss of another woman that I was not given a chance to get to know, even in childhood.  The loss of my maternal grandmother.  I was shattered.  I was gripping the frame and choking back tears.  The loss of these two women left an enormous gap in my family structure and the subsequent decades of dysfunction - which show no sign of abatement - seemed to mirror their deaths.

My aunt, just before she died, suddenly, in 1992.

It struck me how the glue that holds families together seems to exist in the maternal bonds.

Mother was a young adult in a different country when her mother passed away.  A country that was extremely expensive to get to or from relative to the inexpensive costs of travel today.  My maternal grandfather did his best to keep the family relationships alive and together (with a healthy dose of solid dysfunction added) but after his death in 1996 the shreds of familial connections started to fray. At this point in my life I feel very little connection to the sixteen younger (living) maternal cousins and various and sundry second cousins that are still springing forth due to the fact that I am the eldest and the youngest cousins are still toddlers (I have two uncles that reproduced as seniors).  There are a couple of exceptions to this but living in a far away country makes it difficult to maintain any sort of intimacy.

Daughter, at seventeen, willingly chose to spend 22 days with Mother.  Would I have done the same at her age?  I was not given the choice since both grandmothers were dead at that point in my life. I do know though, that most of my entire life I have felt like a buoy that is not anchored.  Yesterday was the first inkling I had that the anchor I missed having was real and not just a product of years of reading self help books that described dysfunction in detail but rarely beyond the immediate family.  My maternal grandmother was an anchor that kept my maternal family afloat and her tragic loss before her family had grown left a gap that still reverbrates. And the loss of my aunt did the same - shattering the one meager extended family relationship I had on the new turf her, my uncle, and my parents chose as home.

And today, having found and named the lost anchor I feel I have actually sealed the cracks in my foundation. Mother is writing a memoir about her mother.  I eagerly await getting to know my lost anchor and feel enormous gratitude that Mother's anchoring presence is still in my life.

Happy Imbolc!

Today marks the official start of spring according to my druid/celtic ancestors.

I don't know about you but I've certainly noticed the recent changing sunrise and sunset times. Actually, I've always been attuned to the delight that is inherent in spring.  When I was a child/young adult I attributed that to the fact that I am a spring baby.  Then, after being newly pregnant throughout one spring, I remembered the anticipation I had and the delight of creating life.

And now, I realize that there is actually scientific reasons for this delight.  Vitamin D to be more precise.  The increase in sunlight causes an increase in Vitamin D and voila - more energy!  I regard this magnificent exchange between our Sun and our bodies to be quite delightful.  And besides that, you never hear someone say they are depressed and bursting with energy now do you?

I look forward to new possibilities this spring.  I had the good fortune to run into a fellow explorer yesterday that I hadn't seen in a few years.  She and I exchanged so many ideas over the course of a few hours that I feel today that my brain is like a fully stocked seed storage vessel.  I now feel like I have a vast new array of new things to explore.  Meeting up with her, a sympatico explorer, solidified my recent realizations about freedom and I feel blessed that I can pick and choose which ideas to pluck out and to grow in the future.

One fresh idea I learned from her coincides nicely with the first day of spring.  It is called various names but I especially like Chi Farming.  My fellow explorer friend is of Chinese heritage and I love that her idea, delivered to me yesterday,  brings a sort of unity of our two cultures on today, February 1st, the ancient Irish first day of spring.  A day traditionally set aside to officially start preparations for the new season of growing.  The notable increase in light available for longer days outdoors made this day a good marking point.  If we reclaim this day we can also use it as a day to be mindful in our gardening preparations in order to maximize the fruits of the life force provided by our earth, sun, and moon.

So, this year I am eager to join in the preparations for spring that were first honoured formally on this date by my ancestors.  I am going through my seeds and making plans for my small urban garden.  I am also thankful that my explorations have allowed me to feel the resonance of new ideas such as that of the chi farming concept.  I am especially hopeful this year since I consistently have started feeling that life is coming together more often than falling apart. My own Chi is realigning.

Ballycrovane Standing Stone:  A Sacred space on the extreme west of Ireland,
Beara Peninsula, Cork - where my maternal family comes from.

Nollaig na mBan

"A strong woman."

I heard this slip out of a man's mouth as I passed by him walking my dog in my local Toronto hood a couple of years back. The comment was uninvited and he did not use these curious words as a greeting. It seemed to be merely an observation of my aura. At the time I wondered briefly if it was a figment of my imagination.

It wasn't the first time I had been called those words and it wasn't the last. At times I curse this reality, for it is often a very lonely road. At other times, like my chance encounter with the street side truth teller, and more recently, with the grandson of a Peruvian jungle shaman, I feel honoured that the core of my very being is acknowledged. I daresay that as I age, I embrace these words more and more.

Fortunately for me, there is an ancestral custom that is specifically geared to celebrate strength. The strength of women, to be precise. In Irish it is called Nollaig na mBan and it translates to Women's Christmas. The date of this celebration is January 6th (today).

And so today I am preparing for my second annual weekend brunch to celebrate this festival. I hope to continue with this tradition that my mom first reinstated on this side of the pond a couple of decades ago.

For our family this custom involves a gathering of women and homemade food and small gifts that are brought together in order to nurture and celebrate the awesomeness we are. The date for this celebration is generally chosen some time after the hustle and bustle of holidays. I recall a few February gatherings at my mom's. This year I have the good fortune to be able to celebrate twice...once in my home and the week after at my mom's home in Newfoundland.

If you are a woman reading this, please consider taking a moment to reflect on your own strength and the strength of those around you. And others, take a moment to reflect on the primal female/uterine strength it took to get most of us out and about on this planet.