We Dance on Rainbows

It is Tuesday and my grandmother has just celebrated ninety-one years of life. I open the kitchen window and put Patsy Cline on the record player (her favorite). A familiar sultry contralto weaves across the breeze as I spin a small crystal hanging from a scrap of thin fishing line and looped over a latch on the sill.

She gave me that crystal years ago. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old, but I still remember how we stood over the sink in her tiny home and watched light catch and pop, flickers of rainbow radiating around the room like a disco party.

We’re dancing on rainbows, baby girl, my grandmother winked, taking my hand and twirling in circles, our faces awash in chromatic joy as Patsy crooned across the vinyl, “… I go out walking, after midnight…”

Now I watch as light bends color in the late morning sun and prisms arc along the hardwood floor of my own home, thousands of miles from her. I think of her hands and the folds of her face.

Each line feels like home,

like a light left on,

like the scent of bread warming in the oven.

I wouldn’t dare erase a single wrinkle cast along my grandmother’s skin, couldn’t imagine altering the curve of her ankle or belly or spine. Every inch of her is precious. I catch my reflection in the glass and think of how I am so damn harsh when it comes to myself. Every line. Every puffy bit. Every single way I’m changing as gravity has her way with me.

I sigh and take my tired bones for a long walk along the lake, listening to birds sing and feeling my skin prickle as last year’s milkweed shells clank against fresh spring wind. I pause along the sidewalk as a small potato bug scuttles across concrete squares.

Is it that absurd to imagine it might be possible to love myself exactly as much as I love her? We are allowed to change, after all. I think of my grandmother’s paper-thin skin and the blue-vein highways flowing translucent underneath. I stay very still and allow myself to fill with gratitude, and with grief.

I shut my eyes and think of her as a young woman, feeling a sudden ache over the bruises she endured, all powdered secrets and long sleeves. And right on the heels of that thought follows a firey rage as I picture the walls she was pushed against and the knives held to tender throats.

Be silent. Submit.

My god, how dangerous must a woman+ be that Patriarchy would spend so much energy inventing ways to smash her down?

Shame. Fear. Hatred. Their tactics haven’t really changed much since the beginning of time, have they? My grandmother knows those threats well. She bears the same ancient scars of those who’ve gone before us; women+ who paved the way, women+ who risked it all, women+ who fought for more territory so that I may stand here at waters edge and find my voice. Our voice.

Violence against women+ in an effort to control is effective — but only until it isn’t anymore. Only until we finally cross a threshold of generation and birth something new enough and safe enough to say ‘no more.’

At bedtime, my daughter asks, “When did humans lose their instincts?”

We’ve been talking about instincts a lot lately. In my art studio, there are caterpillars in a small plastic cup on top of an old wooden cupboard given to me by a dear friend. For a week they scooted about, not doing much. And then this morning, by some siren song I can’t hear, they made their way to the top of the jar and wove their tiny threads. One by one, they are creating small havens to keep them safe while they transform into puddles before somehow developing wings and becoming whole new beings.

I think of my girl’s question, and of my grandmother’s legacy, and realize we are all part of the same instinctive survival story. We exist as small pearls in a long string of women+, some whose blood we share and others who bleed beside us as we become family along the way. And we haven’t lost our instincts, we’ve been told to silence them.

I tell my daughter the same thing I tell myself: when we prioritize our full selves, we’re being instinctive. When we embrace our heritage, we’re reclaiming our story. When we tell our bodies and our exiled parts I hear you, we’re expanding the plot line.

We change as we notice the hum of the trees and of our own desire. We transform as we acknowledge the ways our inner world is growing wings.

We have a choice to make — we can fight against our instincts and numb and hide, or we can succumb to the beautiful ancient song stirring in our bones and allow old threads to weave us something new and altogether wonderful.

If my whole life is a culmination of my ancestors’ anthem, I will die fulfilled. If my voice gives out while singing enough and no more for the sake of my daughter, my son, and for every being that comes after, I can imagine no more honorable and brave way to go. We carry on as we learn to trust our instincts and step beyond the path carved by those who came before us. We trust ourselves, and we change.

If the butterflies can do it, then so can we.

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PLAYLIST

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FIVE FAVES

1. These detergent sheets. No more plastic bottles, no more messy liquid. Give me an eco option and I’m IN. (PS - make sure you pop the sheet in before you put the laundry in — made a big difference for me!)

2. I am loving these bralettes. I get them one size smaller because they stretch. Comfy and easy and lightweight, perfect for summertime.

3. These sandals, which I pretty much just replace every ten years or so. They are my lifelong companions and I see no veering in the foreseeable future. What goes around comes around and all that.

4. Step-counting. I know I know — it was a weird fad for a while. But I didn’t do it then, so I feel like I’m off the trendy hook. I like that it offers just the right amount of goal-setting and commitment without crossing over into imminent rebellion territory. I aim for 7,000-10,000 steps daily and that margin suits my Scorpio soul quite well. When the weather permits, I walk outdoors, and when it’s shit, I have a walking treadmill because I am not yet ready for my mall-walking days.

5. Art from this shop. My friend, Margaret, turned me onto them and now I am obsessed. How much word art is too much word art?! Asking for a friend…

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