"Four Winds," Bright Eyes
Dear Grandma,
I have been thinking about you more than you know these last few weeks. Paul and I had the privilege of spending an afternoon with your brother, our great-Uncle Jim, two weeks ago, and it was one of the most humbling and powerful experiences I've had in awhile. There is virtually NOTHING in this world that can replace or compete with history and experience, and Uncle Jim is gloriously overflowing with both. While he constantly apologizes for forgetting information or confusing dates, his mind is, pardon the expression, a steel trap full of journeys and memories and adventures. It was perfectly ironic to hear him claim every few minutes, "I must be boring you two!" because truth be told? I honestly couldn't think of any better way to spend the afternoon.
We didn't remember you weren't raised in California--we forgot you were born in Massachusetts. We learned from Uncle Jim that you moved to California, on a whim, somewhat rebelliously with him-- and then never looked back. Paul and I couldn't stop thinking about the idea that, if you hadn't done so (at 15, no less!) who knows whether or not we'd exist? What if you hadn't ever met our grandfather? Would our mother be alive? Would we? In what capacity? In what city? How different would our lives have played out? How much of our current bliss and comfort and familial pride would we know?
There’s a place in my heart that aches every so often because it's never physically known you. For my whole life, you've always been a happy idea; a beautiful memory in the eyes of my aunts and my mother. Lately, however, the idea of you—little details I simply couldn’t know; your laugh, your wrinkles, your hands—has been much more present in the forefront of my mind. In all honesty, I don’t know why. Well, that’s not entirely true—maybe I do. I've found myself reading my favorite blog with a touch of envy. The writer, a new mother for the fourth time, strategically places her children in front of her and her mother and grandmother behind, showcasing a legacy four generations deep for the staged photo. And it makes my heart hurt—selfishly, perhaps--to think that not only did I never know you, but you will never know my children. And of course, this makes me think about what this was like for my own mother, who never got to experience watching you hold her babies…
While my religious beliefs may be ever-changing and sometimes-murky, I am a spiritual person and I believe in God. I say this because I know your spirit is somewhere out there in this world or beyond it—maybe not in the form of another human, but certainly present and aware. I fervently believe this—just as I fervently believe you’ve had the privilege of watching your four daughters become self-sufficient, contributing, beautiful adults. Four women who have remained connected despite the inevitable hurdles—of distance, of pain, of stress—that often make even a simple phone call nearly impossible. Four women who have celebrated together—marriages, graduations, promotions, and pregnancies. Four women who have held each other up in the face of illness, addiction, heartbreak, and divorce. Four women who have raised their children—and each other—with a grain of salt and a hell of a lot of courage. I have to believe that whether or not you are here in physical person, you must be absolutely aware (and fantastically proud) of your tremendous living legacy.
The truth is, we're all lost and scared and learning to navigate the world, forever-- not in spite of, but in addition to the pitfalls and failures and disappointments. Our expectations change and opportunities pass. Our successes are beautifully scarred with the detours and wounds developed from the roads we took to get there. Our problems and obstacles become catalysts for a present and (hopefully inevitable) future we didn't even know was possible. And while these statements may be generally true for the vast population of Americans (of humans!), if the members of my living family tree pause to think about it, it's decisions you made and actions you took that created our current platform to live—to create and run and read and argue and stand up for ourselves and cry and laugh and be.
I wish I had known you, Grandma. I wish I had memories of eating popsicles on your porch and watching you laugh with my mother your daughter. I wish you would have been there to watch—no, to dance with—your brother across his living room three weeks ago. And I want you to know that just because we never had the opportunity to meet each other, your effect on my life is never, ever lost on me—that kind of presence runs a hell of a lot deeper than time and cancer. So I guess in a way, this letter is a thank you. For the beautiful, powerful, poetic, confusing, perfect chaos that is my life and my family. I may not always show it, but I am always, always, always grateful.
With tremendous respect, faith, and love,
Chelsea
Some people are your relatives
but others are your ancestors,
and you choose the ones you want to have as ancestors.
You create yourself out of those values.
-Ralph Ellison
