Winter Threshold

I am standing at the seasonal threshold, where memories of family and friends have been tenderly woven into the content of the boxes I unpack. Photographs of Christmas past bring a bittersweetness to my chest, and I find myself longing for the touch of my nana, or the reassuring love of my friend, Linda. The bear hugs and the endearing teasing of my father, and the sound of pots clanging and water boiling over on the stove from my women elders, the steam frosted the windows, and I see my younger self trace hearts with my index finger on the glass pane. I miss the stability of my grandparents, knowing that if I ever needed anything, they would be there for me. Their generosity was deeply rooted into who they were, always extending themselves to anyone in need.

I drink in the images and let the tears fall upon the picture frame in my hand. The memories of them, remind me of what has been lost. Of course, the arena of their passing was sharp, taking our breath away as we attempted to digest a new reality without them. In their searing absence, we were asked to carry on…and after a while, we did just that. Over the years the pain softened, and acceptance and gratitude began to fill the pockets where deep grief had rested. This is where I thought it would end, with acceptance and gratitude, and I would be removed from the sadness, but as I age, I am feeling the tug once more.

As I have entered my crone years, I have noticed death. It sits beside me, asking me to befriend it. Maybe it’s a result of hours spent walking and tending to stranger’s graves at cemeteries. Or the countless books I have read about people dying and coming back to life. Or maybe, it’s just the natural progression of time. I have felt a gentle nudge to pay attention. To practice discernment in how I use my energy. To listen deeply to the whispers of my body. To listen deeply to the silent undercurrent that exists below the sea of the story. To hold myself and others gently with great care, with the understanding that we are here to walk each other home. That love is the only conversation worth having as we walk back to ourselves, back to the light that is us, and created us.

As I pull the cloak of the crone around my shoulders, I see my five-year-old self, touching my nana’s face as she slept on the divan. My fingers brush her forehead and to feel the blond waves of her hair with admiration and tenderness, I long for her gaze. To be seen by her again, her blue eyes smiling with the purest love for me. Wake up, nana. Wake up.

I see my father sitting at the kitchen table on an early morning before work and school. There were no words said, nor did there need to be. He never unleashed a litany of reminders or tacked on fear-based safety protocols, to begin my day. We just sat. Him with his sugared coffee, black. And me with a bagel and cream cheese. His quiet presence had a way of holding a space. No language necessary, being together was enough. In the quiet, if I am tuned in, I can feel the essence of him. Salty and sweet, the yearning to be present with his physical body seems to find me here, and I stand holding both, and ride the swell of immense gratitude for the ethereal sensation of him, I cascade into the lull of heartache.

I see the joy and excitement on Linda’s face, who after the birth of my youngest son, Jack, transitioned. Christmas was her favorite holiday, and it was on Christmas that she died, after fighting cancer for so long, she finally let go. She sends dimes from heaven when I am missing her, to reassure me that she isn’t far. She comes to me through mediumship circles and lets me know how busy she still is, that she is watching “all of the children” from her new station. This has brought immense comfort, but as the winter wind whistles through the cracked window, a tear wells in my eye. I miss the hours spent in kinship, having soul hammering conversations about purpose, love, and healing.

On the eve of this winter solstice, I am making space for sweetness and longing, acknowledging that the tears continue to fall, even twenty-five or forty years later. As a sacred baptism of love, I let them fall, and I am bathed once again. I bare witness and welcome the memories in, and as I tend to the fire of remembrance, I see through the eyes of the crone. I am their living legacy, and someday, my living ancestors will be mine. The bounty is here, now, and will live beyond my physical years. The ties of tenderness and love are never severed, only sometimes forgotten.

When tenderness comes, I hope I’ll say yes. When angels whisper in my ear, I hope I’ll listen. When I am asked to be present, I hope I’ll stay. When my heart is broken, I hope I let it be broken. To be in the space where love enters, and to not run away.