The Inheritance

She leads me. Back then when I was little and she was old we walked together beyond what age defines. We walked as who we truly are. Two timeless souls in a timeless moment. I remember it as if it just happened as if it was happening right now. No need to close my eyes and take a deep breath to dive back into that which was gifted to me through the presence of other. No need to close my eyes. It runs through me, through that electrical circuit of my being ever since, or perhaps it has always been in there dormant waiting patiently for that spark to awaken what had to be awakened. Perhaps it has been from the beginning of time, since we both walked upon this planet, together. Through millennia, generations, crowds of ancestors, we have walked together.

She leads me always. And I know now, though I didn't know then and I didn't need to because I was patiently carried all the way to here and now. She leads me. My grandmother. Electric late afternoon light fills up our vineyard with a honeyed glow. I follow her along the narrow path lined with a thick blackberry hedge. It was growing wildly, its branches never controlled, never pushed back. The bewildering freedom and sultriness of that hedge is such a contrast to the planned and trimmed vines on the other side. Now they are one, one witness to the essential moment of my life. All the elements are flooding my soul. We are one with our witnesses in return. I'm counting the vine rows. We stop. "There", my grandmother says, "I've hidden a treasure over there somewhere. Go look!" I excitedly dart forward. But even if I never would have found it, the treasure I was meant to receive was already mine. Counting the posts, trying to embed all this beauty into some kind of a grid, anchoring in a geometrical substance. And there I was. The most eclectic gathering of little found objects, a tiny pile of wonder. A dot in the dandelion patch. A piece of ribbon and other colorful threads. That's all I remember. How strange. I didn't keep them. I don't know why. All the things we regret we didn't do or say. I don't remember what happened afterward.

It was a gathering of many colors, yet not rainbow-like or child-like ones. The hues contained more accurately resembled ancient pigments used in some kind of a sacred manner. That is my recollection of the material aspect of what I found. But I found much more than that. The yarns and threads were the objects of this world that will become my ultimate tool to connect with the unseen worlds. The fibers and threads are our channel through which we will find ourselves again in the futures too distant to comprehend. Through yarn, we will find each other again. Third row, seventh pole.

My grandmother passed away way too soon & my grandfather followed her ten years later. When it came to dividing up the inheritance the grappling hands of the family didn't leave much for us. I didn't inherit any of my grandmother's tapestries or craft projects, just a needle she used in a vintage loved-hard plastic bag from the yarn shop. Needless to say, despite my hardest efforts to hang onto the needle, the precondition to being parted with material possessions didn't even spare my inherited sewing needle. Grandma's only sewing needle. Another physical object swallowed up by absence only to emerge on the other side as an intangible guide, forever present.

Knots are just as important as the thread. They ground me, one by one they strengthen my awareness, they hold space for my inner growth. The mindfulness of knotting is a medicine that came into my life first when my roots have been challenged. My family has sold the vineyard and our summer house as well, the two of my most beloved places. Knotting threads transformed my understanding of what one's roots are made of entirely.

Over the years I have found the ultimate nourishment and healing in the practice of macrame. It is also one of the fewer crafts that allows you can dance while creating. When I create, it's a team effort. My ancestors walk with me. We dance. I dance. In the sacredness of creation. Through the realness of it all. The sorrow, the loss, the golden vineyard, the heavy branches of a walnut tree, we dance. While my hands keep knotting our gathering into presence, into this world. All the lessons I need. One knot at a time.