Conversation with Grandmother's Sister

I just have one small question. Why? It has burned in my head for weeks now. I shall go talk with Grandmother today. Yes, perhaps, I shall. My mind has not been quiet enough. Today may be different.

I clean up the table, carrying my teacup to the sink. Then head for the back door. The dogs are always ready and jump happily, eager to join me for a walk. A short distance from the house, I find the place I am looking for. The trees, elm, oak and cedar are all around and the canopy is thick. The ground gently sloops downward into a gully and is blanketed with leaves. Delicate coral berry and wild ferns grow here. The little natural sandstone bench waits for me. Only birds can be heard here along with the occasional buzz of an insect or two.

I make myself comfortable on the bench, and the dogs go off hot of the trail of an armadillo. All is quiet again, as I close my eyes. Then she appears.

"Where is Grandmother?" "She sent me to talk with you." "Oh." I said. "Who are you?" I asked. "I'm Grandmother's sister," she said. We paused and looked deeply into each others eyes. I reached out with all my senses to *feel* this woman and I felt compassion, understanding and love. Her energy reminds me of Kuan Yin, and we smile at each other.

I look back at the ground and notice a bug traveling from under one leaf to another. "Everything is so sad." I said. "So much befuddled energy." "So much twisted anger."

Grandmothers sister rearranges a flowering vine on an elm tree. Then reaches into her apron and hands me what can best be described as a light wand. "Hold this, please." She turns back to the flowering vines again, rearranging them to suit her, then she asks for the light wand. Gently she touches the trees around us with the wand. Then puts the wand back into her apron. Turning to me she asks, "Do you see any difference in the trees?" I look up at the trees and study them intently, looking for any nuance of change, so as to answer Grandmothers sister correctly. "No, I do not see any difference." She nods, smiling looks up at the trees and says, "Soon the leaves on this elm tree will become yellow then brown. The leaves on the oak will change color, revealing their true colors of red and yellow. It will be their time. The leaves will transform and change. It will be their season of change. The leaves bud in spring, grow through summer, transform in autumn. Then the leaves appear again in spring. Everything changes according to their season, and so have you."

Yes, everything changes according to their season, I thought as I looked back at the ground. Looking back up, Grandmothers sister is gone.

I take a deep breath while thinking, yes, we learn and relearn. I glance over my shoulder and notice the dogs had quietly returned and are lying just behind me. I did not hear them come back. I quickly lift my gaze up into the oaks. Some of the leaves have become red and yellow. It is their time of change, and so it is with me too. -- Pilarr

Old-Timey Recycling

My son asked me yesterday what happens to the garbage we throw away. He looked a bit worried when I told him that aside from what little is recycled in some fashion, they just compact it and pile it up somewhere -- and he should be! Someday soon, he and his generation will have to find room to live amidst all this garbage.

Things aren't the way they used to be, when you were taught to value things -- to make it last, use it up, pass it down, wear it out, and do without. Modern technology changes so fast, we value the disposable over the made-to-last, and there are many things which were once considered "luxuries" that we now value as "necessities."

I grew up with my grandmother, who came from the Great Smoky Mountains and knew what it was to recycle before it became an option.

I remember the wonderful quilts she would make, and all the preparation she'd go through to make them -- gathering up all our old clothing, stripping the zippers and buttons from them for re-use, and cutting the already-worn material into pieces that could be used for the outer and inner layers. After she'd pieced all the odd-shaped patches together she'd quickly stitch up a nice bed spread three or four layers thick.

At bedtime, I used to enjoy thinking of the many stories told by the irregular patches on my covers: the scrap from the dress I used to wear, the piece taken from a shirt my grandfather had worn; and feel comforted by my grandmother's thrifty craftsmanship as I fell asleep. Hers may not have been the kind of quilts people will find years later in an old trunk and hang up like a treasure on their wall, but they still kept us warm!

I remember the old days, when next-to-nothing got thrown away, and think that maybe we've lost quite a bit -- and if we take a look in our dumps, we may find it. -- the Editor