Aging in the Spirit of my Grandmother
Through her eyes & by her hands: I see me
She died when I was 17-years old. I wasn’t allowed to grieve back then. I was chastised when I stumbled on photos of her last days, hidden in the closet. Even so, she was my everything.
And while my earthly memories of her exist mostly as a girl, she has always come to me in my dreams (and marked in my tattoos). She sat with me the first time I did Ayahuasca in my 30s (much like she did when I wasn’t feeling well as a girl).
And in my 40s, I feel a constant presence, not unlike my own, but much older. Is her ghost following me or possessing me to keep tabs? Ha. Maybe.
She was in her late 40s when I was born, in fact, I was born on her birthday, we were sealed from the day I entered the world, ass first by C-section (yes, literally, my fierce rebellion began on day one). And now —now, I am nearing her age. I find comfort in that.
As I get older, I welcome what I see in the mirror. A few small wrinkles around my eyes, creases in my forehead, a new mole or freckle here and there, and distinctive veins constructing my hands. I am always pleased when people tell me I look French, because I know they see her line.
I see it too. She guides my steps, even as she sings to me from an energy beyond. (Call me crazy. That’s okay).
Sure, there are some who see me far younger than I am, and tell me to love youth over my aging marks; but no thanks. I would rather embrace growing a little older.
Agin’ like fine wine, y’all. (wink)
Listen,
Society equated middle age women with ugly and unintelligible. It’s not and it never was.
Our obsession with ‘youthful’ to hide reality isn’t serving us. Middle age is vibrant, it’s straddled between youth and elderly. It’s the ‘Auntie Energy,’ and while we have a few joints starting to creak getting out of bed, we can also rock ‘n’ roll with the best of ‘em. Middle age is when we “take off,” elegance with a dose of rough and tumble. And for women in their 40s & 50s who waited to take on motherhood?
It’s a chance to recapture youth, blended it with the wisdom of life.
Granted, I am grateful for shows like “Grace & Frankie” (Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin), for actresses such as Dame Judie Dench or Dame Maggie Smith, (and Jud’ still gets all the parts. ha ha.), all of who are showing us the way. Another year of stories and possibilities they tell us, as the wrinkles get thicker.
Still, culturally, we have a long way to go. Overcoming body-shame is still a weighty task.
We are still sexual beings and our bodies hit peri— and menopause and we’re frustrated because cannot express pleasure the same way. We have to be mindful of things like mood, extra heat and dryness (Cue Betty White on SNL with Crusty Muffins). We have to elevate our lube game and decide what to do about the new smells in our skin. It’s weird. We don’t build muscle as easily and supplements are thing.
I didn’t say it was pretty. It’s part of the process and I am no stranger to facing off with shame and generational wounds.
I’ve decided to embrace my slow incoming grays, keep my long, messy, hair and I’ve been making decisions about preventing Breast Cancer, while getting tested (so far so good despite high risk familial trends).
My Grandmother died after years of chemo and radiation treatments. (And yes, I dare believe in environmental correlation, so I’ll join Jane Fonda in a fight against fossil fuels and oil companies polluting our land. Being Earth conscious IS body consciousness) She had lived a full life and had to slip away because she was tired.
Still, she is my reflection and my reflection speaks to me. My reflection is more than me, it is generations of women, generations of grief and victory and story, sorrow and greatness, deep rooted wounding and healing, two steps forward and three steps back. My reflection peeking at me from beyond and through my eyes. Their lessons are my-own too. Their Spirit, my spirit. So I embrace my aging. I am an ancient being, an ancient corroboration of cellular structures and DNA, relationships of energy. I am still discovering her.
Recently, I cohosted an open-mic poetry night online. My friend and I decided to theme it psychedelics and healing. Grandmother kept slipping into our theme, because for many of us, on ‘Grandmother’s’ medicine, we are drawn back to our Selfness through ancestral connections. It’s this “role call of the wild” to use ‘her’ strength to heal ‘her’ wounds in the name of our wounded lineage.
And so, there’s this woman, who is the soul of my soul, who handed me the task of healing ‘us’ the moment she held me on her birthday, on my ‘bearth’ —day.
Mmm, and I’ll tell you, she was funny, she laughed at her own jokes (so do I). She took care of me when I was sick, picked me up from the bus and was my secret phone call when I was at home by myself (against my mother’s wishes, they had a complicated relationship). She sang to me. She played piano by ear and could pluck House of the Rising Sun on a 12-string guitar. My voice sounds like hers (and I’ve been told I sound “older” in my vocals). She beat me in every game of checkers. I felt safe when I stayed overnight with her. She hugged me tight and loved me.
She was elegant and built a life with a first generation German-American man, eight kids and took care of her brother, her mother. She survived traumas beyond imagination. I can take on the world because she did. And I will live past the age she did. Yes, yes, I’m doin’ it for the line.
So when I see the stretches in my neck (which for women of a certain age, is sophisticated in my opinion), the lines in my hands, they remind me who I am, where I have been, where I am going, and the old soul I have always felt working within me, because, well, she was right there, to affirm my rebellion from day one.
Connect with Ash if you are interested in Coaching (Body Confidence & Generational Healing) or Consultations — Email Here & check out more information on my work at ashgallagher.com