“We’re so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past, like ancient stars that have burned out, are no longer in orbit around our minds. There are just too many things we have to think about every day, too many new things we have to learn. New styles, new information, new technology, new terminology … But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone.” Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
Come with me, digging through dusty cupboards, clasping faintly scented kerchiefs to our noses, tiptoeing up creaking stairs, sneaking a sweet from the bowl of our childhood, straining for the almost lost murmurings of a conversation. Come with me down the familiar hall to the home of our heart, the place where our memories live.
I hear the busy clanging of pots in my Grandmother’s kitchen. I smell the enticing, rich aromas of chicken and fresh vegetables in the pot being prepped for chicken and dumplings that night and the undertone is melting molasses in the oven. One pie sits on the windowsill to cool and I hear the oven door open for the next shoofly pie for a sick neighbor. Her absent-minded murmurs embrace me, her litanies of to-do’s while she peels potatoes, ” We have to go to to Zook’s to pick up tomatoes and beans, then stop by Stoltzfus for meat, and take the pie to Mrs. Cole. I made cookies for the fire house so don’t let me forget them.” I nod to stay in this embrace, in this moment in my Grandmother’s kitchen. My hand brushes the plastic tablecloth and sweeps some stray crumbs from her coffee and toast. The radio buzzes in the background and a horn beeps as a cousin drives by the house. I know the spots where the linoleum floor dips slightly, I know the feel of the coffee cups, and I know that if I walk up behind her and put my arms around her, she would stop and cross her arms for a moment over mine before bustling off to the sink. Outside, the laundry flaps in the early Fall afternoon, sun really does dapple through the immense oak tree, and, for just a pause, I soak up these simple memories again for the times when I miss her so much.
The body remembers, the bones remember, the joints remember, even the little finger remembers. Memory is lodged in pictures and feelings in the cells themselves. Like a sponge filled with water, anywhere the flesh is pressed, wrung, even touched lightly, a memory may flow out in a stream. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes
As we enter the season of Autumn, the veils begin to thin in preparation for our Ancestor celebrations at the end of October. This thinning brings our Beloved Dead back into focus, fleeting whispers and memories, that spark our hearts. In preparation for the season, take the time to remember your stories. share them with your family, your children, your friends. Through knowing our stories, we connect deeply to our roots and our ancestral DNA. We identify where we came from and that can inform where we are going.
Tap into your roots. The roots of the Ancestors, the roots of the land, the roots that nourish you and support you, physically and energetically. See what memories come rising to the surface of your consciousness and pull you, just for a moment, through the veils.
Blessings of Autumn! xo Kimberly
