These are the women…
Manidoo Makwa.
Grainy black and white photos. Visages captured by patterns of light on celluloid. Looking at me through time and whispering in a tongue long silenced. These are the women from whom I have come. One never met, she died long before my birth, and the other as dear to me as my heartbeat, I still remember the scent of lavender when she crossed over. Grandmothers. Grand-mothers.
For my Book Club this year, I selected a novel by a new Canadian novelist called, A Grandmother Begins the Story. A delightful tale both poignant and whimsical penned by Métis writer, Michelle Porter. As the beloved women of my book club, over 25 years together, gather around the fire, we hope to remember our grandmothers and their stories.
What are the stories we remember? What are the stories we tell? How does a grandmother hold space for the stories? When my paternal grandmother died, I discovered both to my delight and my disappointment that each of my siblings, each of my cousins believed they were the favored grandchild. Such was my Nana’s quality of presence. Whomever was in her company was made to believe that they were the most important. How does one do that? In the distracted field of electronics vying for our attention, how does one cultivate a sense of presence that lets the guest feel so met, so seen, so valued. I am not half the grandmother to my grandchildren that my Nana was to me. But, I keep trying.
I sang to my new born grandchilden. I sang them a lullaby that honoured the spirit of the Bear. Miigwetch Mishomis, manidoo makwa… Miigwetch Nokomis, manidoo makwa… Bear is the great dreamer. Bear whispers to us in the darkened cave of sleep and we waken with new life, new stories, new songs. Bear begins the story. Bear holds space for Story.
Dreams are my bread and butter. As a Jungian analyst, I know these stories that come to us in the night are our compass. They direct us toward that which we seek, always True North. Always home. When my grandchildren are visiting, even if they seem absorbed in their devices, I find myself humming the lullaby. Maybe a part of them remembers those precious moments shared. Maybe when time collapses and my visage looks out at their future selves, they will remember.
Once on a frozen lake, in the middle of the Algonquin highlands, I had a vision. The snow was deep and wet and my companions were either too far ahead or too far behind to be seen. I could hear their muffled voices through the trees, but for a moment, maybe for a lifetime, I felt utterly alone. Just me and the creaking trees. Me and moan of the frozen lake. Me and my imagination. Suddenly, I felt them. A throng of Elders. My grandmothers and grandfathers. At least seven generations strong.
They told me that the past was in front of me and the future was behind me. I was walking in the footfalls of those who had walked before me and I was leaving a trail for my descendants. Snowshoe prints. It was a profound moment of clarity, or destiny. A True North moment. I came to understand that my life was the middle of the story. My grandmothers began the story and my descendants would carry it forward - both its wounds and its wonders.
We die unto those who have gone before us. Our task is to leave as unobstructed a path as we are able. Our task is to be an ancestor worthy of having come from. I may fail, consistently, in my ability or my willingness to get their music, understand their Tiktoks, or be fully present to their chatter, but of this I am certain, I see the future in the eyes of my little bears, hear it in their stories, and hold it tenderly in my heart.
Miigwetch Mishomis, manidoo makwa… Miigwetch Nokomis, manidoo makwa…