dancing

IT’S BECAUSE WE’RE ITALIAN

A few days before Gran died, she was expressing her gratitude: “I’m so fortunate to have my family taking care of me.” My mother-in-law responded, “Of course, Mom, it’s what families do.” Gran smiled, “It’s because we’re Italian.”

My mother-in-law gently explained that they are not Italian. (In fact very Anglo-Saxon. The family name is Jones!) Now I’m from an Italian American family and Gran spent an awful lot of time with us…I do believe Italian rubbed off on her. How could it not? We spent most of the time in the kitchen cooking. The rest of the time in the garden enjoying a cup of coffee. Gran loved her coffee. While she was here, I never drank so much in my life! “Come, Debbie, have a cup of coffee with me.” She would ask late in the afternoon. “Oh, and maybe we can have those cookies we made the other day. Just a couple. We don’t want to spoil our dinner.”  How could I refuse? It was precious time spent with an amazing woman…my only grandma.

Italians pass the time playing cards. Gran never played cards before, but she learned fast. Her youngest daughter was surprised, “Mother doesn’t play cards!” Gran was brought up in the Reformed Church of the Latter Day Saints…no card playing allowed, no dancing, no drinking, no swearing. Well, in our house Gran played Gin-Rummy, enjoyed “just a sip” of Steve’s homemade wine and no, not a virgin margarita, but a real one “you know I love the salted rim!” and once we were having a frank discussion after dinner about the consequences of proposition 8 and Gran got upset, “It’s no one’s damn business who people love!” Oh yes, and she and I would dance. Foregoing the walker, I would hold her tightly in my arms and we’d sway to the music.

When Kyra would come home, we would all be in the kitchen making something delicious. My Mom would join us—she runs my practice which is right here on our property so I could be home for the kids and then for Gran—four generations making fig jam, stuffing zucchinis, preparing yet another meal. Mom would squeeze Gran and give her a kiss. “It’s not a kitchen without a grandma in it!” Just as Gran took me in as her granddaughter, she treated my mother as a daughter.

Gran had enough love for all of us and more. Years ago she “adopted” a young black man who reveres her. And her Hispanic caretaker came to the hospital in February, laid her head next to Gran’s and wept. She stayed hours petting and fussing over Gran.

Gran worked in the Farmers Market for 30 something years making friends with Jewish, Asian, Hispanic and Blacks. She did not see race or color or religion or sexual preference. Gran only saw people. And she was always delighted to meet them, all of them…and perhaps share a cup of coffee?

Steve and I were reminiscing last night. I know you tend to elevate the dead, forgetting their worldly transgressions and focusing on the good. But no need to embellish Gran. Like Steve said, “She was always genuinely glad to be see me, accepted me completely and my presence brought her joy.” Gran treated all of us like this…in her presence our truth shone…because she really “saw” us…she looked past the shadows and embraced the light in each of us…

Steve believes karma is incurred over your lifetime. He’s spent his consciously banking good karma. Gran didn’t know much about karma…but her bank was full. I believe karma can be imprinted. My research shows it begins in the womb…remember the Red Cord…yet I have been branded by Gran. She has imprinted me to the roots of my soul.

Only one day gone, I miss her so.

The family is making plans for the funeral. They want to get a hall for the reception afterwards, get a caterer…you know cold cuts and petit fours. I called my mother-in-law and told her “The Italian side of the family is cooking! Oh and we don’t do petit fours.” She laughed and told her sister. I could hear Auntie in the background. “Thank goodness, I love tomato, mozzarella and basil.”

I’ve started the menu entitled—Gran’s Day—the day we gather to celebrate her life: Bruschetta, melon and prosciutto, marinated grilled vegies, olives, of course lots of bread to dip in Mom’s sauce…she’s doing most of the cooking. I’m the baker in the family… Gran loved my holiday cookies and they go so very well with a cup of coffee. We’ll go to the kitchen to connect— I’m sure Gran will join us—to reminisce and to prepare delicious food, lots of it… It’s what family does…because we’re Italian.

14 Remembering Mary Magdalen: Dancing in the New Year

Jan 2nd, 2004 Dropping Kyra off on New Years eve, I strove to meet the parents holding the teen gathering. Somehow the book came up. I have no hesitancy sharing this amazing experience with friends and family, but these were strangers. And they asked if I was Christian. And I said no but neither were Mary and Yeshua. They were Hebrew. The looks on their faces made me realize why Steve worries so. He’s preparing for crosses to be burned on the lawn when this book comes out. In spite of the controversial nature of my story, I must have faith that all will be well. This said, how hard it is to humanize Yeshua—but to me he was very much a man who felt love, anger, jealousy, joy. Yesterday during our new year’s hike, Steve was in a sweet mood, proclaiming to be able to take care of all of my needs, to never get lost, to provide me food and shelter no matter where, to lick my very wounds if need be. Although I yearn for a more ethereal connection, Steve grounds me to this 3 dimensional reality. After finishing the forgiveness piece between Mary and her mother, I felt great gratitude for how each member of my family, each person who has served to teach me lessons along the way back to the One. So this morning when I meditated on a disturbing scene, I know I cannot judge what seems like an incomplete memory. How many times have I envisioned parts of this story only to sit down to write and what flows from my hands more beautifully insightful than I imagined?  

Jan 12th, 2003 Last night we celebrated Steve’s birthday at the Greek restaurant and the belly dancer enticed me to get up and dance by offering me her zils—an ancient gesture of recognition just like when Miriam led the Yisraelites in celebratory dance at the Red Sea. It was amazing and our friends commented on how “tribal” I danced. Somehow I knew how to dance this ancient rhythm, perhaps because I had just written a scene in which Mary danced in celebration of the new moon.  At the last science and consciousness conference in Albuquerque, I joined the dance of universal peace and got lost in the ancient rhythms. Afterwards many approached to thank me for my presence asking if I was a professional dancer. Surprised and flattered, I shared my experience with a friend who was a ballroom dancer. She took offense claiming I had no training. True, but at the African drumming circle at the end of the conference, I could not help but dance with the energies. So I danced the drums and the drummer seemed to drum my beat—an erotic meeting of souls through music.