I realize that I haven’t written any kind of update here (or even in my private journals) about what’s been happening since I finished Honoring Your Ancestors by Mallorie Vaudoise.
Since kindling that relationship, I’ve gone through a few emotions: shame, for my mistakes; frustration, for those moments lost; regret, for casting aside what should have been important to me; understanding, for chances not taken. Out of all, one of the major things to affect me has been a desire to understand death, to become involved in it one way or another and sit with it. My ancestors (some named, some nameless, and some unknown about down the line) have been urging me to face death in all its forms and simply talk with it.
Every facet of death is an end and a new beginning, and it’s something that (despite knowing it deeply and personally) I hadn’t truly internalized in the way they are encouraging me to do so. Where I’m from, you don’t forget who came before you and I grew up with my grandfather telling me stories of when they had no streetlights, when the towns were covered in the blanket of night when the sun set and the moon barely lit the way. I heard stories of his mother, of my grandmother’s mother (as little as they were), of my aunts and uncles (10 for my grandmother, 12 for my grandfather), and so on.
With love, a gentle hand, an honest face that admits the good and the bad I have gone through, and offerings, my ancestors have helped slumbering memories of home spring up and remind me that I am not alone. My struggles have been struggled with before, and their advice has become easier to hear and follow.
For example, suddenly I find myself doing and saying things I never did before. One night I followed my instinct and spiced a meal in a way I never had before, my hand guided and my heart full of love, and it came out divine. The next time I tried it, it was even better, and the knowledge on how to wind my way in a kitchen is coming (slowly) but naturally and almost like my grandma back home. And I don’t cook. At all. I usually make cup ramen or toast and call it a day.
It’s also suddenly become easier to take care my home, my pleas and cries for help to combat the overwhelm heard and responded to. Often times I even hear my own voice speak to me in my mind with words not akin to me, “it would be better if you did...” “we should take care of that and...” in ways I never considered before. It’s as if things just click into place.
It’s been slow, but steady. Sometimes I worry that I’ doing something things wrong, but all I need to do is glance at the little area in my home I gave them and the reassurance is there. Or a scolding, it really depends. I don’t know where I am headed with this, my intention with my ancestors is one of nurturing a bond, but anything can happen if my dreams are to be picked apart in.
All in all, I’m still extremely happy I grabbed that book and read it. It’s opened a door I was looking for, and even at my lowest I still know I’m not alone. No matter what.
