I usually hate silence. But tonight I weep alone.
My father’s sister died today.
I have to be the first one to admit that I did not know her as well. I would be negating my authenticity to announce longing phrases and “she was” sentences. The truth is I didn’t know her well.
And yet, I am hyper aware of the dynamics within our family. Our complicated, imperfect family (as so many are). The drama and history seep into my empathic energy like paint and brush.
And I cry. I sob. I shed tears for the ones who they never got to be. For the life they never lived. Hoping it was enough for them and maybe it was.
I cry for their struggle and their pain. I cry for the ones who didn’t know how to support them and the ones who didn’t care.
My ancestral chords are vibrating. They’re shouting at me to help but I don’t know what to do.
I yearn to go back in time…to be a fly on the wall or a be a participant in a Doctor Who like interaction.
I think about my father’s parents who I never knew. And the two grandmothers I lost this winter.
The DNA in my bones longs for connection to my roots - to the family I never knew; to the history that can only be passed down in pictures and words instead of memory.
At the end of our days will we whisper, “did I truly live my own life?” Will we stand in our power and seize the day? Will we look back to the days of our foremothers and forefathers and say “things were so much simpler then”? Will we pass on knowing that we did our best?
Most importantly, what will you be remembered for?