RELIC

RELIC : an object from a pastime with sentimental interest / reverent belongings of someone deceased / a trace of one’s past / outdated customs or beliefs / unfashionable practices

Standing in the center of Grandmother’s living room, everything has been packed and moved out except for a few end tables with various pieces of art left behind. Circling, surrounded by Grandmother’s art and other relics, I feel her presence more than ever. I think, “these paintings belong here.” I notice how animate and abstract they feel. They are truly a part of this house, this home. She must have left them as a gift, a blessing, a homage to the perfect house but not forever house.

My rational side imagines they needed to move on, because the house no longer suited their needs - they grew out of it. What once was full of children bursting with energy, must have felt different, empty. Interestingly, my curious side notices the worn down, burnt orange carpet is vibrant now. It’s clean, full and fluffy. And the antiquated wood paneling is buzzing with shine.

“Could the house be speaking?” I question what is real. My memories have the power to influence, but the feeling is strong. Grandmother must have felt this way too. She would always say, “Walk by faith, not by sight. Remember who you are.” Then she would knock on the wall, or a table, anything solid around us. So, I often question, what is “real” or “reality”.

“Grandmother, could that be you? Are you still here?” I whisper. I stand, listening, waiting, observing the room, sensing, feeling into the carpet, the walls, her art.

The carpet feels like a wave breathing under my feet, a wave breathing. The air comes up through my right arm and shoulder, leaving me cool and breezy.

As I sense into the wall, my knees go solid. The wall grows up from the earth, its growing! It’s alive! I can feel the wetness. It’s almost like being in a terrarium. That growing up feeling - moves up and down, like a fountain, there’s a lift and cycling through. It bubbles up in my chest now. I see her art, the brushstrokes are moving, the images are melting. The pieces are all living, breathing, moving with the room. I can feel this living presence. I realize, “it’s an ecosystem.”

I see her face. On the backs of every painting are portraits of her, posing elegantly. She was an unknown artist for her time, but that never stopped her from painting. Her photo there, as if on a postcard for an exhibit featuring this series of works titled: “Living Presence”. I sense her now. The graceful lift of her arm and hand extended through her chin and chest; her arms are solid and calm, her skin is taut with supple softness.

The feeling keeps growing inside me. My throat closes now, from the feeling of loss. The feeling of loss in the throat. Thankful for the big orange pillow cloud beneath my feet, to catch me if I fall. The carpet breathes, the wave of breathing. Breathing. In and out, up and down, air coming through, the wetness smells alive, melting paint, the elegant lift, the taut layer and the softness underneath, circulating like a fountain. The fountain - the breathing wave. My throat of grief.

“Oh, how I miss her so.” Although, feeling her presence makes me feel full and alive.

Tired now, I need to rest. I make my way to the sunroom. The seven windows are closed and blinds are drawn. I can see the night sky. I always loved this room. The sunroom has no roof, so you can see the stars.

I lay down, covering myself with many blankets. I can see everything here and it’s quiet, until I hear a “hoot”. The hoot of an owl. She speaks!

“Grandmother…” I place my hand on my heart and a hand on my gut, trusting what I know to be true. I wait in awe and openness. And that’s when the barn owl flew. She soars overhead, flying from one star to the next.