a passing.

My Grandmother, Pauline Mary Barnet Bolton, passed away.

I haven't spoken with her for probably (2) years. Perhaps a year and a half. I don't know. I struggled with the guilt and sadness I felt. mine. So, I didn't call. Afraid that she'd not remember who I was or that I had even called anyway. Afraid that the conversation would keep coming back to "do you still live in California?" With me replying "yes. yes, I do. Though I'd like to move home." That was after she broke her hip and moved into a senior care home.

Her memory was fading before that. long before that. The reality is...I just didn't know how to sit with my own discomfort in order to reach out and connect with her. I didn't know how to point out that she was watching the same television channel all day, and that the programs kept repeating, all day. I don't know if she was watching anyway.

When her memory began to slip and she moved out of her house into her own apartment- I didn't know how to be in relationship to her. Previously our relationship revolved around the conversations we had while doing things. When I was young- I'd trail behind while she harvested the garden. We'd shell peas, wash carrots. I'd ride along on visits to her brothers, or sister in-law Vera. Later, I'd accompany her to Dr.'s appointments. She'd bring me along with her while she tended the gravestones of our ancestors. Hunching over our tasks, she'd talk. We'd clean the markers of our family- and she'd talk to me about who they were. She'd tell me about our family. and sometimes- often, we were quiet. She was quiet and it was okay because we were together, working.

Later, when I was older, I'd drive over from college and help with chores and yard work. Then she'd cook dinner for the two of us. We'd talk and be in each others company. I think, mostly, I asked her questions.

So, when her memory began to change -and when there were no chores to be done - my conversations with her felt strange. Where, once, there was activity now was space. empty space.

Rather than explore this new relationship with my aging Grandmother - I simply left. I called her once or twice and then never again. Rather than reach out, sadness filled in. then guilt. Still I didn't reach out.

I wonder. How do we honor those who have taught us so much? How do I offer my Grandmother the respect that she deserves? Now that she has passed, how could I have done it differently?

We live in a different time. Families spread out. We are dependant on technology. I sometimes wonder how different it would have been had I lived closer...I should have lived closer. And then I think... Life is different now. My entire family doesn't live on the same hill I grew up on. I had the good fortune of growing up surrounded by family. I lived next door to my Grandparents on wide open farm land. My Grandmother taught me a lot in that time- more than I could possibly explain in this short piece. I know many people are not so lucky. But they should be. We all should be so lucky as to have elders as teachers. life teachers.

As I age and consider becoming a parent myself, I realize that I must find another way. I must blaze forward and courageously cultivate and maintain the beautiful relationships I have with my elders. And I must teach others- parents, and children to do the same. For if I do not, I fear the knowledge and wisdom will be lost to my own children, and others.

an empty seat

I sit here at this desk
and I wonder what it is that I am doing.
I sit here bored.
I sit here killing time.

I sit here insecure.
and I stay.
all the while I think up schemes.
of removal.
of success.
of busting through the gates and doing it.

A Journey into Ancestral Story

My upcoming workshop on Ancestral Story
Join me!

Tuesdays: 7:15pm-9pm
September 21-November 16th
Cost: $125-$200 (sliding scale)
Class will be held in Berkeley, at Ashby and San Pablo, near Berkeley Bowl West

This 8 week course is an introduction into the living world of stories. Entering through our
ancestral stories we will:
 see how our stories inform our lives, and those who come after us.
 deepen our understanding of self and community.
 develop strategies for working with all story- ancestral, cultural, societal, and communal.

The course will be a combination of small group work, writing, research, discussion and lecture;
we’ll draft a family tree, create a family genogram, and do legacy work, among other things. Most work will occur during class hours, with the opportunity/possibility for individual exploration outside of class hours.

To sign up, or for more information, email Sarah at sbolton.coaching@gmail.com

Sarah's Extended Bio

Sarah Bolton, MA is passionate about healing through re-connection and believes that as we come into right relationships with self, family, community and nature we experience healing. Sarah has facilitated this healing by working with both group and individual potential for over 9 years through ancestral story coaching and fire-walking workshops. Sarah is a guest lecturer and teaching assistant at John F. Kennedy University and The California Institute for Integral Studies. She is a certified massage therapist and holds a Masters degree in Consciousness Studies from John F. Kennedy University.

Opening.

The sadness enveloped me
just as the cold brisk water
when I dove.

Welling up from my heart
momentarily holding
tight and constricted
in my throat.

Rolling salty and full down my cheeks
Water contouring to my body.
Shocking my every cell awake.

My breath caught deep in my chest,
I gasp at the surface.
Awake.
Alive.
Full of sensation.

Cold ankles. Water. Rippling between my legs. Nipples hard. Skin reaching. Searching.
Heart breaking open.

Lake water drips from the tips of my hair. I pull myself out.

Exposed to the chilly morning air.
Sun barely touching the sky.

Fish jump. Deer watch. Know me.

How do I express this gratitude?
For allowing me to come to home in this place. To lower my shroud of disconnection. to feel.

I offer my tears.
my sobs.
My shaking body.
and know that I am enough.

old glass bottle

My father was rebuilding the old civil war road. It crossed through my town, over my hill, my farm. By the time I came around it had all grown over. It began with small weeds-what most people consider a nuisance. But to the land...it brings it back. That old road, which had been cleared and built by soldiers and volunteers, filled itself in with weeds-then brush and undergrowth, then trees. And my Dad was clearing them again. I'm not exactly sure why. So we could access more of the family land. maybe.

Whatever the reason, I loved it. I loved trekking into the hills with him. He'd spend the day sweating. I'd spend it exploring and grinning ear to ear the whole time. Every inch of my exposed skin dusty and dirty.

We most often took the old farm-all down. It had an old wooden platform hooked to the back- where you'd connect the wagons. All the tools were on it. Sometimes I'd sit there- watching the world fad into the distance as we made our way deeper into the woods.

Most often, I'd ride up with Dad. That's where he'd tell the stories from. Yelling over the loud engine. Occasionally ducking out of the way of branches as they whipped back toward us after getting caught on the exhaust pipes. He'd point out old cellar holes and tell me who had lived there. Or he'd help me puzzle piece the layout- barn here, house there, pump house, water well.
I think he'd stop the tractor and begin working next to those once-lived-in-homes just for me. He knew I loved to touch and feel the stones, remembering a story in a different way. He knew that sometimes I'd find a spoon or a bottle packed with dirt, in the dirt and it'd be like I found a buried treasure.

Peanut Butter

i don't like the stuff.
lots of people like it. some love it.
many purchase it, and are particular to the brand.
some grind their own.

some like it with sugar, some salt.
some like it naked.
smooth, crunchy... or on celery.

Actually, I take the celery part back. Most people I know say the celery is a vehicle for it. but not for me. I scrape it off and just eat the celery.

I cringe thinking about the people who eat it by the spoonful. gobs at a time.
not me.

I don't like the way it smells. tastes. the oily residue it leaves behind. the way it sticks to the roof of my mouth....or how I have to dig my finger in the far corner of my mouth to free my teeth of it.

My cousin choked on it. Aunt Bonnie stuck her finger down his throat. It saved him, but you're damn straight he never ate it from a spoon again.

with jelly, not even.
cookies or crackers. no.
with apples- it ruins them, so no.

I just don't like peanut butter.

blessing.

May I always be surrounded by an abundance of dirt.
May my feet find sweet relief nestled in its coolness.
May the creases of my fingers be filled with it.
May it dust my cheeks and mingle with my sweat.

May it ground me....
and remind me that I am home

when I am there.

dreams of home

It's a glimpse. A little cut out square of home. I am away.

The longer I am here the more I feel like I am losing touch with my way home. As if the ink on my map is fading. As if I've folded and refolded it too many times. The edges are frayed and the creases have holes in them. and every time I pull the map out, just to be sure of where I am, I have to use caution and care. Pull out the map with ease and respect, as if it were a dying friend.

I once heard a quote: "Memory is more indelible than ink"

I think about my map. With it's lazy, floppy pages, the roadways rubbed to oblivion. My map will die and I'll be left with a memory of how to get home.

(Quote by Anita Loos)