my grandmother's birthday

my grandmother's birthday was a few days ago, nov 23rd. she turned 92, and is in great shape, living on her own, doing her thing. i wrote a little something about her a few weeks ago, so this may be a good time to share it...

--------

i'm sitting on the ground at the labyrinth. the sky is gray, overcast, but it's not too cold. the trees have lost almost all their leaves. aiyana's sleeping in the car. i am wrapped tightly in my scarf. perfect time to be quiet and turn inwards.
i'm thinking about her again. i miss her. it started when i walked in the general store this morning and saw an old lady, wearing a green dress, an old tattered sweater, and thick-rimmed glasses. she held the door for me. seeing her sent the pain of longing and recognition all through me. i imagined her alone, in romania, and hoped that the autumn has been mild.

i have so many memories about my grandmother (mamaia). mostly sensory memories. like when she, roxi and i would lie down at night, barely fitting into the single bed. we'd have to lie head to feet so we could all fit. my grandmother's feet were very rough, with thick calluses and large, protruding corns. feet with lots of character. not pretty, but real. feet that hed been through life. my feet are getting to be that way now.

we'd lie there and i could feel my grandmother's soft, heavy body. her clothes, mended over and over. the faint cooking smells that were just part of her. her breath always smelling of garlic (she ate raw garlic every day). safety, comfort, security - home. we'd say "tell us a story", and she'd start. as soon as she finished one, we'd say "tell us another". she'd keep going until we fell asleep. sometimes she'd fall asleep first, but then we'd wake her and say "more" so she'd keep going. she told stories from her life, as a child, as a young woman, as a mother. she'd tell us stories of when my sister and i were babies and she was caring for us. sometimes she'd invent stories, about little girls getting lost and others i can't remember. i loved all of them. i'd ask her to tell them over and over again, even though i knew them by heart.

stories are powerful. other than shared experience, i think they're the most powerful thing to bring people together. now i tell my daughters stories before falling asleep at night. we all lie down and i tell one story after another. when i stop, sena says "another one", and i keep going until i get too sleepy and i tell her "this will be the last". i tell them stories from my life, mostly from the time when i was young, growing up in romania. some stories are funny, most are sad, like the one in which my little yellow chick gets squashed, stepped over, as she tries to follow me around everywhere. i tell them about the times when i was mean, and did things i later regretted.

i want them to know that feeling i had when my grandmother was telling us her stories. it's funny how, after all this time, i get to experience the other side, get to be in her shoes as the story-teller, the provider of comfort and security.

one time, i was maybe 10, i came home from school very upset. i had gotten a bad grade on a test. i knew my dad would be mad at me, and i was scared. i came in the house, and told mamaia about it. i put down my school bag, sat down by the door and started to cry. she sat down next to me, and cried too. didn't solve anything, but made me feel so...not alone. this is how she was.

then, when i was becoming a teenager, just before leaving for canada, i lost interest in mamaia's stories. the more i started to doubt myself, to compare myself to others and find myself lacking, the more unhappy i became and the harsher i was with her. suddenly, i found all these faults with her. she was dirty, her advice was ridiculos, she exagerated too much, etc. she could not do much to please me those days. i'd yell at her a lot, and she'd cry and i just thought that she was weak - it was her problem. i needed to feel that i was right, that i was in control and she was an easy target. those days, i was mostly living out of my head, and my heart was becoming more and more closed with fear and insecurity. i looked everywhere for something to make me feel better, and mamaia no longer had it, or rather, i didn't want it from her. we left romania when i was 14. she stayed.

after many years, i started feeling better about myself, being gentler with myself and others. i've been thinking about mamaia again. especially after having children, i'm appreciating more and more how much she did, being there for us every day, when my parents could not. i regret, of course, how i treated her just before we left. all i can do is hope that she knows that when i was unhappy, i hurt the most the people i loved the most. a constant theme in my life, maybe other people's lives as well.

mamaia is not perfect. nobody is. she's not all goodness and sweetness, whatever that is. she can, for example, tell lies to get herself out of uncomfortable situations; and other things.
she is a soft, heavy woman, who spent a lot of time loving us. she gave us of herself, which is the most you can ask of somebody. that's why old women with thick glasses and tattered sweaters will always stir that soft, powerful longing inside of me.

peace