Walking a Ritual with Beads

In areas where winter means snow and ice and cold, everything seems to quiet down in the natural world around us. It’s a meditation in itself to slow our own daily lives and match pace with the place we live, making it the perfect time of year to focus on connecting to a sleeping, resting world.

It’s easy in the height of verdant summer to feel the heat and passion of life. Often, winter can feel like a long walk over the bones of the dead in a cemetery, so quiet and still. It’s unnerving to some. Truth is, just as the stars live in the sky whether we can see them or not, we walk every day over the bones of our dead. The ancestors are always with us.

I carry that knowledge with me through the holidays, when living family gathers in a whirlwind of joy and love and remembrance. After the chaos it can be difficult to slip back into the quiet of day-to-day. When missing my family is still a bright pang, I turn to my ancestors, the family who walks with me, with each of us, wherever we go. I turn towards strengthening that connection, thinking that maybe in the stillness of a snowy afternoon they can hear my call more clearly.

As a child I loved the rosary. I did not actually use it as it was meant to be used for I did not understand its true intention. Instead I used them to repeat my prayers at night, speaking to the streetlamp outside my bedroom window in the dark, whispering furtively for answers, for guidance. I loved the feel of the beads beneath my fingertips. Each one was a separate prayer, or the same prayer repeated. It was a tangible journey, one foot in front of the other, each step imprinting the message in my heart.

Working with ancestors often feels like speaking to the air, to ether. In the beginning of my work I needed that connector, that thing that joined my prayer with action. I longed for the feel of beads beneath my fingertips, something physical to help separate me from my body and push me into higher consciousness.

I’ve written before about the wooden mala beads I made, one bead for each known ancestor going back seven generations. But what I wanted was a ritual I could work with my hands, something more sacred. Something that reminded me of incense and chanting and temple halls, something to help me find the sacred in a tree grove and the night sky.

Years ago, in an evening of women coming together and doing a piece of spiritual work, we each made a set of beads that spoke to us. We each created a personal set that met our requirements for a personal ritual. All were beautiful. All were sacred. All were different.

I grew up immersed in a natural world with four seasons and my magick moves the same way, like the breath of the trees. So my personal magick often incorporates those seasons. My rituals weave through them to help me reach a heightened consciousness. I used semi-precious gemstone beads to create a ritual my fingers could walk.

Seven fossil beads begin the chain, the layers of ancestors, seven through which to know myself.

Nine beads mark each season, nine to mark what is sacred, three times three, my father, my mother and me.

Moonstone, smooth as silk stands for spring, for heavenly bodies and hope, for the promise of flowers and warmer winds.

One of bone to remember the flesh.

Red Tiger Eye, flashing and radiant as the summer sun, the shimmer of hazy heat and the courage found in youthful hearts.

One of bone to remember the tissue.

Lapis Lazuli for autumn, for the density and depth of water and twilight, of mystery and mist and the power of the veil and what lies beyond.

One of bone to remember the heart.

Moss Agate for winter, for earth and ice and crystal together, caressing and holding and resting and charging.

One of bone to remember the soul.

Then Quartz at the peak, for sight, vision and meditation, for communication. For being and reaching. For here. For now. This is where I speak, where I pray, where I petition, where I sit in silent clarity open to answers and impressions and visitations.

And then back down the path, down the ritual, back down to the beads of fossil of ancestral generations holding me and guiding me and bringing me home.

Roots

The counties my ancestors lived in NY.

I can look at my family tree over and over and every time, I see something different. The more variant ways I take in the data- the list of names and dates and geographical locations- the more three-dimensional the tree in my brain becomes. I can see the migration trail that my ancestors took as if they are rippling across the top of a map, travelling from right to left, seldom back again. I can see them moving further to the ocean and then across and down. Until the last two generations, we hadn’t moved further west than Michigan. We are a season-loving people.

Maybe it’s the constant of the seasons changing that reminds me most of the fluidity of life. Everything always changes. The future is always in motion, always moving. I am not sure where life will take me. None of us are. Sometimes, the uncertainty of not knowing where I’m going is eased by the ability to reflect back on where I’ve been, and the reminder that, whatever the circumstance, I navigated through it to get to where I am.

I know where I come from. The people and places I come from. As I write this, I am sitting in my childhood home, celebrating the holidays with family I don’t get to see often enough. I watch my nieces and nephew and think about how much their lives have changed as they’ve grown. I remember what kinds of things played through my head at their ages. I remember at what skin my worldview was. I remember the events that shaped my perception and my life… and me. I take in their stories and how much their lives have shaped them into who they are, who they are becoming.

Where will they go? Where will their lives take them?

The earth is sleeping in this part of the world. And in her slumber I can feel the thick roots vibrating where the feet of my ancestors have travelled, toiled and trod. In the wintering of the world I open myself to the unknown path that lies ahead of me and reach out to touch those tendrils of ancestral memory.

In America…



The cities in Connecticut we lived.



CONNECTICUT… Fairfield Co: Stratford. Hartford Co: Hartford, Simsbury, Windsor. Litchfield Co: Bethlehem, Kent, Washington, Woodbury. Middlesex Co: Clinton. New Haven Co: Milford. Tolland Co: Tolland. Windham Co: Ashford, Windham, Woodstock.

FLORIDA… Pinellas Co: St. Petersburg. 

MASSACHUSETTS… Barnstable Co: Sandwich. Bristol Co: Taunton. Essex Co: Andover, Beverly, Lynn, Methuen, Salem, Salisbury. Franklin Co: Whately. Hampden Co: Brimfield, Monson. Hampshire Co: Northampton. Middlesex Co: Concord, Marlboro, Reading, Watertown, Woburn. Norfolk Co: Boston, Charleston, Dedham, Dorchester, Medfield, Sharon, Stoughton, Walpole. Suffolk Co: Roxbury.

The cities in Massachusetts my ancestors lived.

MICHIGAN… St Clair Co: Memphis, Port Huron, Riley.

NEW HAMPSHIRE… Grafton Co: Orford.

NEW JERSEY… Bergen Co: Hackensack, Paramus, Pemmerbogh.

NEW YORK… Cayuga Co: Auburn. Clinton Co: Clinton, Dannemora, Mooers. Columbia Co: Kinderhook. Dutchess Co: Dover, Nine Partners. Erie Co: Tonawanda. Fulton Co: Gloversville, Johnstown, Mayfield. Genessee Co: Alexander, Batavia. Greene Co: Cairo. Monroe Co: Clifton. Niagara Co: Barker, Beach Ridge, Cambria, Hartland, Lockport, Middleport, Newfane, Olcott, Pendleton, Royalton, Somerset, Wilson. Oneida Co: Vernon. Orleans Co: Eagle Harbor, Gaines. Oswego Co: Redfield. Steuben Co: Cohocton. Ulster Co: Hurley, Kingston. Old New York: Flatbush, New Amsterdam, New Utrecht.

VERMONT… Caledonia Co: Danville. Chittendon Co: Barre, Burlington, Charlotte.

And in other countries…

AUSTRIAN SILESIA… Engleburg.

CANADA… Quebec: Chambly, Contrecouer, La Durantaye, Lacadie/ St Jean, LaPraire, Montreal, Providence, Quebec City, Saint-Laurent/ I’le D’orleans, Varennes. Nova Scotia: Louisburg, Cape Brenton.

Counties in England inhabited by ancestors. 

ENGLAND… County non-specific: Armounderness, Cambridge, Chester, Cranefield, Devonshire, Doncaster, Gloucester, Hertfordshire, Hunterdon, Lazenby, Lea Hall, Preston, Lidel, London, Northumberland, Sussex, Totteridge. Berkshire: Bray, Eaton Hastings, Sulham. Buckinghamshire: Bourne End, Little Missendon. Cambridgeshire: Chatteris, Needingworth, Wimpole. Cheshire: Barrow, Clifton, Doddington. Cumbria: Kendal, St Olaf. Derbyshire: Sawley. Devon: Plymouth, Salcombe Regis, Sidbury, Sidmouth, Stapleton. Dorset: Bridgeport, Cadle Hadden, Dorchester, Piddlehinton. Glouchestershire: Witcombe Magna. Hampshire: Winchester. Hertfordshire: Minsden. Ipswitch: St Mary’s Tower, St Nicholas. Kent: Dover, Faversham, Headcom, Northclay, Turnbridge. Lancashire: French Lea. Lincolnshire: Crowland. Lincolnshire North: Barton. Norfolk: Hemsby, Norwich, Ormesby, Scratsby. Northamptonshire: Cottingham, Daventry, Long Buckby. Nottinghamshire: Worksop. Oxfordshire: Buford, Mollington. Shropshire: Eyton, Eyton on the Waldmores, Little Withiford, Leighton, Moreton Corbet, Oswestry Castle, Upton Cresset. Somerset: Chaffcombe, Glastonbury. Staffordshire: Cresswell Manor, Ford Green. Suffolk: Beccles, Groton, Moulton. Waltshire: Wighill. Warwickshire: Warwick. Wiltshire: Marlborough, Salesbury. Yorkshire: Bedale, Bracewell, Brideshall, Carleton, East Riding, North Riding, Norton, Norton Conyers, Skelton, Skipwith, Wighill. Yorkshire North: Knaresborough Castle, Tadcaster. Yorkshire West: East Haddlesey, Kirkburton.

Isle of Jersey. Isle of Man.

FRANCE… Abbey of St Grestain, Aix La Chapelle, Argences (Caen, Bayeux), Beaumont, Bretagne, Castle of Ambrieres, Challe Mesnil, Clermont (Lemans, Maine), Cleuville, Estouteville, Falaise, Fecamp, La Carite-Sur-Loir (Nievre), Lens (Artois), Liseux, Notre-Dame (Rouen), Saye, St-Jean-de-Montaigue, St Jean Baptiste (Caen), Toulouse/Haute-Garonne, Valognes, Y/Somme/Picardie.

GERMANY… Hesse Darmstadt.

IRELAND… Bannockburn, Tyrone County.

NETHERLANDS… Amsterdam, Enigen, Hees, Wageningen.

NORWAY… Maer, Nord-Trondelag.

PALESTINE… Damietta.

SCOTLAND… Orkney Islands.

TURKEY… Nicea.

WALES… Aberffraw, Dendaethwy and Malltraeth in Anglesey, Glamorganshire, Powys.

Modraniht, id est matrum nocturum

“the Modraniht, that is, in the night of the mothers[=matrons?]”

Early Germanic peoples celebrated the night before Winter Solstice as Mothers Night. The Venerable Bede, a Christian monk from the 8^th century wrote about it in his description of the pagan calendar. In Old English they called it Modraniht. More than 1100 votive stones and altars have been found through the centuries, dedicated to the mothers, or matrons, and half of these altar stones were inscribed and dedicated with Germanic names.

The main areas of worship have been uncovered in ancient Germania, northern Italy and eastern Gaul. There are a few larger cult centers with temples found along the Rhine. Many of these altars were found near rivers, wells or springs. The dedicated altars and votives reached as far as present day Scotland, southern Spain, Frisia and Rome. There is reference to the Germanic Mother Cults in the writings of Bede in 725 AD: “And the very night that is sacrosanct to us, these people call modranect, that is, the mothers’ night, a name bestowed, I suspect, on account of the ceremonies which they performed while watching this night through.”

Altars and votive stones, as well as temples, were often carved with images showing three women of matron age and appearance, often holding baskets of fruit and a baby. Based on the inscriptions found, it is thought that these altars were dedicated as offerings of thanks for abundance, gifts and blessings that soldiers and sailors had already received. They believed the Mothers had responded to their prayers and this was their way of acknowledging them, burning incense and leaving sacrificial offerings of food.

Many of these goddesses or spirits were named for the family that was dedicating them, as well as being named for the river or spring that watched over the local town or village, such as the Albiahenae matrons of the town of Elvenich or the Renahenae of the Rhine. Of the 1100 votive stones found, over 360 different ones name the same sets of matrons, the Aufaniae, the Suleviae and the Vacallinehae. Based on the age of the stone inscriptions, it appears that the cult of the Matrons began to die out in continental Germany around the 5^th century CE, and Modraniht was not as widely celebrated as Christianity took hold.

What can we take away from what history tells us? The Night of the Mothers was the time to honor the familial and tribal “soul” mothers who watched over them. It was intended for those mothers who had crossed over, not for those still living. On Mothers Night we honor the sacrifice of life so that the ancestral mothers might become a source of wisdom and strength for those still living.

I like to begin my celebration by creating a small rock cairn on a temporary altar. I honor first those of my mothers who have crossed over, inscribing their names on stone in chalk. I light a candle for each of them. I remember them and tell their stories. I also choose to honor the strength of the mothers still living, that they may become part of that ancestral current when it is their turn to pass through the veil.

I drink a cup of tea and invite them to share my cup. I crochet, something my Great-Grandmother taught me on the front porch over the summer when I was younger, gifting me her hooks when she could no longer use them. One way to honor the mothers is to honor their work and pass on the skills that have been taught to you by your mothers, and their mothers, that they live on through you, and the crafting of your hands. I sit and hand-sew, darning old clothes, and as I stitch I pray.

I am Sarah, daughter of Margaret, daughter of Patricia, daughter of Margaret, daughter of Eliza, daughter of Mary of Ireland.

I pray for health for my loved ones.

I pray for healing for my friend, a mother, battling through breast cancer.

I pray for healing for a friend whose mother died a year ago today.

I pray for healing for a friend who lost her mother recently, a mother whose birthday is today.

I pray for healing for a friend whose mother recently discovered her cancer has returned.

I pray for strength for my niece, a new mother this year.

I pray that the echo of the wisdom of the mothers who have come before is remembered.

I pray for the earth, for our Great Mother, whose bones and minerals and animal DNA gave us life.

I pray for all mothers who came before me, all who walk with me and all who will come after.

I Believe in Santa Claus

Last week, my wife flew into the house, cheeks rosy and eyes bright shouting that she had seen Santa Claus in the grocery store (insert childlike exclamation marks). I smiled while she elatedly described him to me, an old man with snow white hair and beard in a red sweater, slowly walking the aisles. He had candy canes and oranges in his cart and when she looked him in the eye, he winked at her. I felt the giddy welling in my own belly and wished I had been there to see him, too.

Whether you call him Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, Saint Nicholas, Sinter Klaas, Father Christmas or Pere Noel, the spirit of the myth that was once a man has lived for centuries in the hearts of people everywhere. Bishop Nicholas of Smyrna lived in the 4^th century. He was the son of a wealthy family who used his money for the welfare and good of his people, performing miracles for those who might otherwise have been left destitute. He brought hope and light to the world. He was a real man before his spirit was blessed with immortality. In the passing of time and telling of stories a holy man became something greater. He became a season of giving and a myth with many faces.

It is the legend of the immortal gift-giver and toymaker that most of us grew up with. I still remember my love of the “jolly old elf” as a child. I remember because I still carry that love in my heart. My favorite version of his mythology comes from the fictional work The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus by Frank L. Baum. A babe left in the woods was raised in magic by the fairy folk and gifted the Cloak of Immortality for all of the joy he brought to an otherwise bleak human world, so that he might continue his good works forever. I like the idea that long after I am dead and gone, the spirit of the man called Claus will continue. Our world needs magic in it.

I wish that the joy and spirit of the holiday season could stretch out and blanket all of the calendar days, so I try to drink it in while I can, syrupy sappy happiness and all. I love baking cookies and delicacies and crafting presents for loved ones. I love the lengths people will go to in order to make a little Christmas magic happen. I learned that from Santa… and the spirit of him that lives in the heart of my mother and father.

How can belief in him be a bad thing? Santa Claus wants us to be good to each other. He promotes charity and compassion as well as candy canes and hot cocoa. I was the child who vehemently defended his existence far beyond what I should have, for as smart a child as I was. See, I’d done the math. I knew how much the presents we got from Santa Claus cost. Times that amount by three children. There was no way my parents could afford to spend that much on us. I was adamant, fighting with friends on Grand Street on the way home from school and stomping home angrily because they didn’t believe me. They didn’t believe in Santa, when he was so good to us. I really wish I could remember how old I was then.

I remember sitting on my dad’s lap, in his father’s rocking chair when I was a bit older. He mentioned how important it was that I not ruin Santa for my younger sister, or other young children. I was bright for my age and always a bit ahead of putting pieces together. He assumed I had already figured it out and knew I was the kind of child who liked to share the knowledge I had. I will never forget the way his face drained of color when he saw the look on my face – when he realized that not only had I not put it together yet, but I had not even suspected the truth. My poor father. I had been a warrior for the Northern Elf for years and now my dad was saying he was a figment, just an idea.

That did not take the magic away. I was not entirely sure that my father was right. Santa had to be more than an idea. My eyes opened wider in the wake of that moment. I understood that the mall Santa was like the priest at church, speaking for a man who could not possibly be everywhere at once. I didn’t negotiate much beyond that until I realized something about my parents. They never bought things for themselves. All year, I watched my mom not buy herself anything and realized she was squirreling money away so that they could make Christmas the most magical day for us. My parents sacrificed to gift us magic out of love. Because they remembered their joy as children, waiting for the sounds of sleigh bells in the night sky. It was a legacy they went to lengths to pass on.

I remember well my days as a young girl, waking in my flannel nightgown, waiting until we were allowed to wake my parents. I remember every year, our mornings around the tree unwrapping presents. Those mornings opened a window into the child that lived in the heart of my parents and my grandparents. I understood that they were once children my age, excitedly opening gifts with their parents. In my mind’s eye I can see the tree changing backwards into homemade ornaments and popcorn strands, paper chains and nuts strung. Rugs become rag wool become wood floor become dirt and straw… Always there is a child beneath the tree whose blood is part of me.

The real Santa Claus lives inside all of us, like the divine energy of god does. We all have a santa and a scrooge, a light and a dark side. At holiday time, we find it easier to feed our inner Santa. We feel the desire to give gifts of magic to children around us and fight hard to help him defeat our stressed-scrooge inside.

Like the Native American story, we have a choice to continue to feed our inner Kringle and spread the joy and light of love, compassion and charity throughout all of our days. Whatever you believe, whatever you practice, whoever you love, take the best of the holiday season with you into world, through the long winter, well after the snows have melted.

An old Cherokee Indian was speaking to his grandson:

"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy. "It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil- he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other is good- he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith. This same fight is going on inside you and inside every other person, too."

The grandson thought about it for a long minute. "Which wolf will win?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one I feed."

A Healing Holiday Tree

Whether you celebrate Christmas or Yule, one of my favorite traditions of the season is decorating the evergreen tree. I celebrate both holidays, sitting vigil through the long night of Yule, the Winter Solstice. Dawn means that the coming days will lengthen and the longest night of darkness is over. The Christmas I celebrate is a cultural one. It has become bigger than its Christian meaning in America and its roots are twined in pagan practices of Winter Solstice. Whatever you believe and however you practice, the magic and spirit of the holiday is alive in all rites and rituals of the season, including caroling, office holiday parties, and secret Santa gift exchanges.

As I get older I find I need the magic more. I look forward to the holidays as the time of year when people hum carols under their breath, smile at cashiers and clerks and are generally in a good mood. It’s the time of year when I can look someone in the eye and the chance of them reciprocating is high. Christmas brings out the best in us, and we dream of peace on earth and goodwill to all men.

That dream is important to me and I use that energy to buoy my heart against the number of loved ones each year who are no longer living, who can no longer celebrate the holiday with me. Every year, I miss my grandparents more and more, not less like I hoped. You love the people you love, and for some of them distance of space or time doesn’t change that feeling.

It would be easy, I think, to be so overwhelmed with missing them to not care about the holidays. My grandma and grandpa were that special. So, putting up our Christmas tree every year is a moving meditation I do to work through that sadness, backwards, into the joy of every happy memory I built with them as the foundation of my own holiday spirit.

When we were young children, every year when the holidays rolled around, my dad would bring the artificial evergreen tree up from the gravel and dirt basement and my mom would pull two large cardboard storage boxes out of their bedroom closet. The boxes were patterned with large orange blossoms a la the seventies. Inside their walls lived our ornaments, which we put on the tree together.

My mother would put on the delicate ornaments and then we would take turns picking a favorite ornament to hang. When I was a little girl, I loved the family day of decorating the Christmas tree. My favorites were these white lantern tops, with colored gels that sat over lights on the strand. I loved those little lanterns. But more than that, I loved the event of being together.  It’s what Christmas is really about.

Putting the tree together still holds that joy for me, that act of setting the evergreen up in the house, of bringing nature indoors. We have a thirty-five year old artificial tree that we are recycling until it falls apart. After setting it up and wrapping thick garland in between the branches, you’d never guess at its age. I unwrap the ornaments from their boxes and spread them out on the coffee table. It’s a living collage of my childhood and the transformations I’ve undergone through and into adulthood.

I have a small angel with a plastic head and a white crocheted dress/body. She has brown pigtails and a small halo on her head. My sister had a similar one with a ponytail. She’s been a part of my Christmas tree for as long as I can remember, so long that her origins are unknown to me. Then there is the collection of apple themed ornaments gifted to me by my grandparents over the years. Some are dated, some have my name on them. I linger over these ones, remembering receiving them, remembering the laughter in the kitchen, the warm food and the card games afterwards.

Among our ornaments are an assortment of stars and moons from our early years, transforming into birch bark woodland creatures and plumed birds. There are ornaments crafted and given by old friends as well as handmade ones from family members. Each one has a story. Each one has a name and face behind it. Each one reminds me of the people I love, whose lives have touched mine.

As I hang these ornaments on my tree, I call those memories into the tips of my fingers and place them with purpose. Where do they want to go? It’s a dance I do to remember… to remember my grandparents, faraway friends and to remember that joy and love. To remind myself in the dark days of winter that there is joy and light to be had. My tree becomes a living memory. It becomes a beacon of hope.

            Everyone has their own style of decorating the tree. Mine looks like a quilting of memories, some nestled in each other and some taking center on their own. But the weaving of time and treasures becomes a spell that lifts my heart. We humans come and go like tides rolling in and out. But as I sit in a dark room, sipping hot cocoa and taking in the beauty of our tree, it is a light that can outshine any sorrow.

I cannot gaze upon it without feeling gladness in my heart, without looking forward to all the holidays yet to come.

Relevant Posts:

Poppets for Grief (posted December 15, 2010)

Christmas Legacy of Dick and Donna (posted December 22, 2010)

Being a Memory Keeper

Inevitably, parts of my journey involve taking in everything I have learned and processing through it, letting it change the way I see the world and my place in it. Not in large or grandiose ways, but in small ways that alter my perception. I am becoming a Memory Keeper, a library of details of lives that have passed on, bits and pieces of flesh that will tell a larger story when I have collected more of them.

Genealogical research is like putting together a giant puzzle. There are names and people that fit into the lifeline that becomes me. You have to match dates against places, children born and occupations. To help with my tasks, I split my ancestry into four pages, four mysteries to track down. There is my mom’s mother and father and then my dad’s mother and father. It simply made it easier for me to learn the names and histories while I kept track of where they fell in my family tree.

I went upwards, starting at myself, thinking of myself as patient zero, since all paths end in me. I have been going from parents to parents, through direct ancestors and their marriages, one generation at a time. My research is a tree, growing up and splitting into forks with every name found, reaching still for names undiscovered and unknown. I want to know where I came from. I want to know the migration of my people.

In less than a year I found two paths of immigrants who came to settle the new world, one maternal and one paternal, both traced back to the Norman invaders, traced back to the same village of Vikings. From my mother and my father backwards, around the vastness of family trees joining and splitting, merging and separating, I trace them back to the same village, to the same group of Vikings who claimed what would become Normandy. Could those comrade-in-arms have imagined that a thousand years after them their descendants would finally come together again? Is that not a wonder? Is that not a genius way of nature reminding us of our interconnectedness? It humbles me and fills me with peace.

And still… it prods something in my heart. It is sobering. In my research I try to include the names and birth dates of all of the children, not just the ones I am descended from. They flesh out more information about the lives my ancestors lived, how many children they had, how many survived… I made the decision though, for the sake of my sanity, not to delve into the lives of the siblings more than birth or death dates. If they are not a direct line to me, I don’t look into them more. My brain can only hold so many names and dates. But that means, if I were a future amateur genealogist, I would not pay attention to me.

I have no children. I will have no children. There will be no one to look back and find my name on their family tree as one of their ancestors. I don’t know why that fills me with such sadness. We are all forgotten, all eventually lost to the rivers of time. I may have discovered that “Mary unknown” wed one of my ancestors, but I don’t know who she was. And even though I know that Freeborn Wolfe, the name, came before me, I don’t know anything about her.

My nieces and nephew will remember me. My time with them has always been precious and too fleeting and I make the most of what we have. I am a loved one they see once a year, so much time stretching between captured moments. They know I love them but I am an occasion, like my own aunts and uncles who lived out of town were in my life. I hold the time we spend together in stasis from one to the next. Each time, they have aged a year of their life in seconds to me. They forget their youth, as we all do. But not me. I do not forget their youth. I remember everything.

My nieces will remember me and mourn me. But most of their children won’t know me. In the blink of a generation, I will be lost. Reflecting on all of the people that I don’t remember, the ancestors who once lived, and how little that not-knowing affects my life is, honestly, a weight off. It’s like the pressure of becoming an extraordinary person has dissipated and I understand I only have to be the best version of the person I am. What I want is to live fully present in myself and in my life so that when I die, I shall pass with such a dense burst of exhalation that the echo of my spirit vibrates on in the ether.

I am sometimes filled with the compulsion to go out and randomly carve my name in stone in the woods. I understand why so much of the world is covered in graffiti stating that so-and-so “was here.” The human part of me would at least be remembered in mystery than not at all. The spirit part of me understands that it is not our individual self that matters to the history of our species. It is how we evolve, how we migrate, how we leave the world behind us that is of importance.

If, when we die, we have touched lives and opened eyes, if we have loved and been loved, have we not made an impact on our world? This dance is at the core of the Work I do, the balancing shift between honoring the past and preparing a better future, and living in now. I don’t have any answers, just questions. How are my life choices rippling out into the future? How am I leaving this world a better one than I found it to be, for my nieces and nephew, for my grandnephew? For all those who will come after?

They Came Across the Ocean

The winter is coming,

The dark and snow, the grey and cold are coming.

We stand at a threshold with the last of autumn harvests.

We prepare a meal with our Plenty,

A feast of light and joy to feed our fires,

Warm our bellies and bolster us.

Look at all we have to sustain us

While the earth sleeps and rests.

After the flood this year, many families in our city had to struggle with not having enough, with not having shelter or heat, facing the reality of tainted water. We learned just how far the love of others can stretch and soothe emotional wounds. Giving thanks feels much more relevant this year and my house is getting ready to celebrate the bounty of our harvest, to have gratitude for our abundance. We have. We are blessed in many ways. We have more than enough to eat. We have a home with heat and water. We have our health and the love of family and friends. For all of that I have gratitude that overwhelms my heart with happiness. For all of that I am thankful.

I am thankful for my breath.

I am thankful for this body, for a body.

I am thankful for the blood in this body and those who gave life to give mine.

Even if that was all I had, it would be something. What about those who gave this blood to me? What about those who travelled to an unknown world with little more than their bones and breath? They travelled across the ocean to an unknown world. They came with no guarantee of homes waiting for them. They came with what they could carry. They came across the ocean with hope and promise as their wealthiest possessions. I know from my research that they came as hired men, soldiers and freemen. They came as young girls, wives and mothers. They were all farmers and healers and teachers. They had to be. They came across the ocean for freedom, for a chance.

I am,

that they were,

that they are,

that they will be.

They came from England, on my mother’s side…in 1629.

Robert Moulton and his wife Deborah of St. Olaf immigrated to Salem, MA in 1629 on the George Bonaventure, hired by the English Company to build ships in New England. Ann Wilson and Michael Sallows, as well as Abigail Downing and John Goode of Ipswitch, came to Salem early in the new world. Henry Birdsall of Norwich immigrated to Salem after the death of his wife Judith in 1632. Peter Wolfe emigrated from England to Beverly, MA. Jeremiah Gillett came from Chaffcombe to Dorchester, MA sometime soon after his older brothers came on the Mary & John in 1630.

Richard Walker emigrated from Marlborough, England to Lynn, Massachusetts as a soldier in 1633. Thomas Wheeler travelled from Bourne End in 1637. He arrived with 4 of his brothers and 2 of his sisters. Henry Cooke immigrated to America in 1638 and was married in Salem in 1639 at 23. John Smith was born in Hertfordshire and immigrated to Connecticut in 1639. Abigail Goode was born in London but married in 1640 in Salem. Richard Holbrook, born in Glastonbury, immigrated to MA where he married in 1648 at the age of 29. Deacon Henry Baldwin was married in Woburn, MA in 1649, having emigrated from Devonshire. Nathaniel Briscoe, Jr. was born in Cambridge and immigrated to Connecticut by 1649.

Nicholas La Groves landed at Salem, MA from the Isle of Jersey in England around 1668, when he was 22 years old, as a Huguenot refugee. Joseph Boots was born in England, and died in Royalton, NY. Ruth Ireland and Charles Evan Ruston, born in Doddington and Chatteris, respectively, immigrated to America in 1881. She was 19 and he was 33 and they were the last of my ancestors who immigrated to America.

They came from England, on my father’s side…in 1630.

Joanna Ford emigrated from Dorchester, England to Dorchester, MA, on board the Mary & John in 1630, along with Captain Roger Clapp, whom she married in 1633. He was born in Salcombe Regis and arrived on the ship with Joanna and her family. George Dyer of Dorchester was on board, as were Elizabeth Cooke and her husband Thomas Ford, of Bridgeport.

Mary and Robert Pond came to Dorchester from Suffolk. John Gay left Plymouth, England in 1630 for Watertown, MA at the age of 14. His wife immigrated to Watertown from Headcom, England in 1635 at the age of 22. Abigail Gilson of Faversham married John Eaton of Dover in 1630. She was 29 and widowed with children. He was 18. They immigrated to Massachusetts together in 1635.

Frances Dighton of Glouchester and Richard Williams of Glamorganshire, Wales, were married in 1634. Their first child, John, is listed as dying “at sea” in 1636, perhaps as they were crossing. Anne and Thomas Bird emigrated from England to Dorchester. Mary Dyer was in Dorchester by 1641, when she married Sergeant William Pond.

They came from the Netherlands…after 1640, by 1660.

My father’s maternal and paternal lines are thick with Dutch blood. Wilhelm Willemsson Janseen Dutcher emigrated from Einigen to New York after the birth of his son Jan in 1640. Jan Wilhelm De Duitscher emigrated from Enigen, Netherlands and was married in NY at the age of 19, in 1660. Joost Huybertszen Van der Linde, born in Wageningen, was in New York by 1661 for the birth of his daughter. Hendrickle Stephense Van Voorhees, one of my female ancestors, had immigrated from Hees to Hackensack, NJ by her fifteenth year, 1675, when she married Albert Terhune.

They came from France… to Canada and America…by 1647.

Francoise Fafard, born in Argences, Caen, Bayeux married Joseph Mathurin Lemonier, born in Clermont, Lemans, Maine, had both immigrated to Montreal, Canada by their marriage in 1647. She was 22 and he was 27, ancestors of my maternal grandfather. Francois Le Sueur came to America from Dieppe with his sister Jeanne in 1657. He was a Huguenot and a civil engineer who helped build New Haarlem. Isaac-Etienne Paquet dit Lavallee came to Canada from St. Jean de Montaigue as a soldier in LaMotte’s regiment in 1665.

They came from Poland… I mean Prussia… I mean Silesia… in 1662.

Albrecht Zabriski, my father’s maternal ancestor, immigrated from Austrian Silesia in 1662 to New Jersey when he was 24 years old.

They came from Scotland…in 1728.

David Calhoun, a maternal ancestor shows in America by the age of 27 in 1728 when he married in Connecticut.

They came from Ireland…in 1758.

All of the Irish immigrants belong to my mother’s maternal and paternal lines. Thomas Ridel, aka Riddle, was the first immigrant from Ireland, arriving in Monson, MA in 1758. Nancy Machet and John Berry were married in Ireland in 1795, travelling to the new world after. A later relative, Thomas Berry, was in America by the early 1800s. Mary Dowd and David Conners arrived together mid-century.

They came from Germany…in 1848.

Katherine Maria Schmeelk immigrated to America with her family in 1848 at the age of 13 from Hesse Darmstadt, Germany. Her future husband, Adam Art, also emigrated from the same city in Germany. In 1855, at the age of 17, John F. Pils also left Germany for the new world. All three German immigrants represent my mother’s maternal line.

They came from Canada…in 1850.

My mother’s paternal family is heavy with French and French-Canadian heritage. Albert Durant was 8 when he immigrated to America from Quebec in 1850. Rosella LaValley and her family, shepherded by her father Francois Xavier Lavalle, came down from Providence, Canada. She was 18 when she married Albert, 20, in Mooers, NY.

Peace to you and yours.

May you never be hungry.

May you know love.

May you know gratitude.