A photo by Thamizhpparithi Maari
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Nine years ago, I began a journey
of meditation and trance to learn how to connect to the ancestral bloodstream
within me. I believe in genetic memory, in the echoes of the patterns of living
we have built generation after generation. I believe you can tap into that and
touch it, for I have.
Everything in life is ebb and flow.
In and out, up and down, left and right, forwards and backwards. The most
helpful tool in connecting to this energy for me was the labyrinth, followed
closely by the spiral shell of the ammonite. Knowledge lives at the dark center
of each. In order to attain it you have to go in. And you have to go furthest
into the darkness in order to get out. That pattern is also true in life; in
order to get past something, you have to push through it.
Though it took me years to perfect
the application of the meditation, the form of it is simple enough. Meditate on
the blood, flowing through your veins. Trace it’s route through your body as
you breathe in and out. Sink into that rhythm. Follow the blood back to your
parents’ blood, to their parents’ blood, which is where yours came from. Watch
as the bloodstream divides. Follow the branches of blood backwards like waves,
rippling away from shore, into the depths of generations. Each layer
multiplies. Known or unknown, there are always two parents, four grandparents,
eight great-grandparents, and so on. Lose yourself in the black inky depths of
the ancestral ocean. And open. This blood meditation is one way to connect to
the taproot of our ancestors in this physical lifetime.
When I was better practiced at my
meditation, I received a visual that stayed with me long after. I saw a man
with dark curly hair, stepping out of a large forest with four or five handmade
brooms slung over his shoulders. He was wearing a simple shirt and loose pants
with boots on his feet, all of an indeterminate time period. He was leaning
against a rough lumber fence but he looked at me, looked me in the eye. The
sensation that only happens in the physical world was there. He was looking at me.
I began to meditate at night on
that image, willing it to me, calling him back. I opened myself up to receive
any message he had to share, but what I got were more brief flashes of images
that meant nothing to me. Eventually, I started to feel a presence in the house
that brought with it the sweet smell of pipe smoke. In my gut, I knew it was him. Whether he was an
actual ancestor, or a metaphor for that cultural bloodline, I didn’t know, but I
started paying attention.
I thought that the male spirit I was
entertaining was Polish or German, both of which I know are heritages that live
in my blood. Later, when he spoke in my journeys, it was German, and we found
ourselves at an impasse. I had sung enough songs in German to recognize a few
words but that was the extent of my knowledge. Several of my houseguests eventually
experienced physical contact with the spirit, accompanied by the smell of sweet
pipe smoke and I used to joke that he must have thought I was dense, requiring him
to seek help in getting my attention. We all called him The German Guy.
On a whim, at a wedding rehearsal
party, I asked my mom what she knew about our German heritage. And my mom told
me stories about her bootlegging German grandfather, where his house was when
they went to visit him and what it looked like. She even remembered the song he
used to sing to the sound of his windchimes:
How dry I am, how wet I’ll be,
If I don’t find, the
bathroom key.*
In the back of my head, I heard the German Guy sigh. I don’t
know who he is or if he, in that shape, means anything to my lineage. But I
liken him to the visual representation of my German heritage, to all the
Germans standing in my ancestral tree. To the known families of Art, Arth, Schmeelk,
and Pils. To honor them, I leave an offering I saw in one of my meditations, of
dark German ale with chunks of hard bread softening in the bottom and I thank
them for their lives. And I thank them for mine.
*A brief web search
led me to the information that this was a common folk rendition that was a
runaway from a small lyric of the Irving Berlin song “The Near Future”, written
in 1919, during Prohibition.
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