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Dirt, dirt, dirt—globs of orangish clay in piles next to my front sidewalk. The plumber with decades of experience rides a mini front loader digging down to address the problem, How can I live here all these years and not see these pipes? He scoops out large piles of dirt and looks to his hefty helper guy to dig further with the shovel. I am in awe.
I am relieved to be here. Everything going on in my life drifts into a backdrop and this scene comes to the front. Simple, beautiful, the rhythm of walking. Nothing matters, everything matters. I don’t have control. My role is to align and surrender, to be willing to give with generosity and to sacrifice whatever limited ideas I have about right or wrong, good or bad.
The ocean sparkles as we stand on the open beach on this blustery cold day. Winds whip our faces as we feel the breath almost pulled out by the force of it. Carmen in her 8-year-old self, wrapped in winter coat runs towards the water, waving her arms here on Assateague, a National Seashore. A wave comes up and sloshes into her shoes. She screams and runs back to me, face beaming. How can the sea melt so many dusty thoughts in an instant?
The Little Red Lighthouse sits on the rocky shore of the Hudson River at the north end of Manhattan. Since the early 1940’s he was dwarfed by the “great grey bridge” also called the George Washington Bridge. My younger brother at five years old loved the children’s book called The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Grey Bridge. He was so taken with the story that when we rode a boat on the river around Manhattan, he called out to talk to the Little Red Lighthouse as we drifted past. Reading the book recently to my granddaughter, I was struck by the way this story speaks to those of us who, like that lighthouse, have been around for a long time. We wonder about our relevance.
Washington, D.C. is so close to Baltimore, yet I’ve rarely been there by myself. The urge was overpowering on a recent sunny Sunday in October when I had no other responsibilities. I’m working on a writing project which needs blocks of uninterrupted time. I also need thinking time while moving. I always carry at least a small notebook and pen in case I have a good idea. Walks in the woods are often fruitful. This time I could have stayed in my study to write, but the pull of Washington got the better of me.
The light from the stage spilled out over the audience and illuminated the faces of my companions. I was there with my Dad, 94, and his friend of many years Dilys, 93. We were settling in after intermission. As the music started, I could feel each of them sit up a little straighter, alert to the familiar Mozart. I wondered how many times each had heard this symphony. I glanced at the two of them, their faces rapt in full attention. Their eyes gleamed and each of them smiled slightly. Bliss!
I stand at your door and ring the bell. I don’t know you. I pause to look around while I wait. The sun shines through the clouds and I appreciate the breeze. Your name is on my list. I am here to share. With me are pieces of information about a candidate or two running for office. I will remind you to vote and tell you about the person.
The Cloisters sits on dark granite at the north end of Manhattan and overlooks the Hudson River. My 94-year-old father, 3½-year-old granddaughter, and I are driving south. I realize we can stop at the Cloisters on our way. My crew will be happy for a break. The Metropolitan Museum of Art houses medieval European works in this place. The Cloisters is a serene oasis, originating with bequeaths from artist George Barnard and philanthropist John D. Rockefeller, Jr.
I watched a student from the Florida high school give a speech just days after the deadly shooting on February 14, 2018. Her words were measured and clear. Her expression was steely-eyed and strong. She went on, at times wiping a tear from her eye. She didn’t hesitate. I listened, stopped what I was doing, turned my head to the side in awe. She spoke the truth, with verve and courage. She spoke the obvious, shaking in resonance from their traumatic experience. As a grandmother and a young elder, I was moved to stand with her, behind her in support.
I hear the word mothering often used as a verb. With my two-year-old granddaughter Carmen I am grandmothering. This requires verve and flexibility and I find myself laughing often. I also wonder how people care for a child without the help of grandma or other family members.
Today, we stop by the park to walk on the wooden boardwalk through the woods. Carmen takes off running with her diaper hanging down and squeals with delight. She looks back at me and I dash to keep up. She sees the stream below through the slats and points, her eyes wide, “Water!”
Carmen looks just like her Mom at that age: lively brown eyes, dark hair in a pony tail and sturdy body. When she dashes off, I glance again at the water. I am grateful to be outside with her. In fact, I'm amazed at how relaxed and easy I feel. She is so free and happy. I am grandma not Mom. I have her for stretches of time. Her Mom works evenings, and I am the most flexible.
As soon as we go into the bathroom at my place she says, “teeth, teeth!” and points to her toothbrush on the counter. There is a kid bath that fills up fast inside the tub. As soon as she sees it, she starts to take off her clothes. I lift her in and say, “Sit down, Carmen,” and she does. She watches the water coming from the tap. “Hot,” she says looking up at me. She plops a toy boat on the water, takes a plastic cup and catches the water. She pours it out and watches it drip. We ease into this time. She is not self-conscious at all. The routine helps us both.
As a grandparent, I am one circle out of the immediacy of the parent. I think of these circles as family/tribe/community. The relationship of tribe or village brings elders closely into the lives of children. I remember being a mom of a young child, rarely having time to savor and sit back. Now, while grandmothering, I do. She looks up at the sky and tosses her hair in the breeze. Somehow thoughts or worries that sap my energy slip into the background.
I am also aware of how much time and attention this takes. I need my breaks to have the energy to continue. Not all families have this freedom or this flexibility. All the more reason for the tribe and family to pull together. This is what creates the joy of grandmothering.
We human beings live a long time because, I think, it takes many circles around the sun for certain things to sink in. I learn every day, yet it is not always easy or obvious. Some of the most challenging and rewarding moments in my life were as a parent, as a Mom. My close friend has two grown sons. Though her parenting challenges are different, we share universal themes. She reminds me of the need to detach and let go while also loving my grown daughter as I watch her be a mother. Life insists that we let go. Either we are crushed and give up, or we are burnished in the fire of life and love.
Many cultures honor ancestors. In some Asian and Native American cultures an altar to ancestors is at the center of the home. These other cultures revere the aged. Now I appreciate why. We see so much, through loss and disappointment, as well as joy and fulfillment. And we are still here. The family and tribe are nourished by stories of the old ones. Carmen and I have so much fun when we visit my Dad, who is 93. He has a bit of dementia and yet is with it enough to laugh with me about how I am managing his care and Carmen's all at once.
Parenting and grandparenting require both humility and confidence. This truth is a great paradox. A two-year-old needs constant attention and clear boundaries: you can’t run out in the street, can have only one chewable vitamin, no, you can’t have another.
Once after the bath Carmen looked up at me and put her little hands on both my cheeks. She gazed at me wide-eyed and smiling for a brief moment. I slowed down inside right then and smiled back. A quiver of delight rippled through me.
We may be caught up in the dramas around us, our responsibilities, the challenges we face as citizens. At least one of the ways we can make a difference is to find ways to grandmother and grandfather. This contributes to the healing of the old, the young and all those in between.
Living in the present moment seems like a simple thing yet is challenging. To grandmother gives the gift of pulling us into the present which is where the small child lives.
