I WANT TO BE SEEN
It was the end of a month long journey of heart ache and falling back in love with myself. I had finagled my way through all types of terrain and had met strangers that rejoiced at my way of being a human being. It had all led me to my grandma’s memorial service. She had always been a tyrannical presence in my life because she had never accepted my mom as a suitable partner for my dad; having attempted to dissuade the union of my parents. I had always felt great distance from her as a result of this awkwardness and a feeling of allegiance to my mom’s broken heart.
Despite this ugly past, I had started getting to know her soul once she was beyond drama and had misplaced most of her marbles. I realized that she was just a person and that she wasn’t aware of all of the heart ache she had caused in my home growing up; she was no longer participating in the game. I felt genuine sadness for her passing as a person that had held the space of grandma in my mind. All of the stories of how she lived her life were revelations of my bloodline herstory; stories about how adventurous she was, how she loved being nude, her love of meeting new people, her healthy eating, her laughter, and the marvelous traits went on. There was no talk of her biting commentary of my mother, or the fact that we never really got to know each other. Death closes the show down and all that is left is perspectives on a person’s existence.
Her death heralded for me an awareness of the fragmented nature of my family. When someone dies, there is no further room for discussion; there is no space to resolve a whole lifetime of distance. That distance is still living and breathing in my relationships with my siblings and it frightens me to think that we might never understand each other.
I marveled at the group of strangers milling around me at the soirée for her life and avoided talking to my sister and brother. I looked at all of the pictures displayed over the fireplace to commemorate her life and saw photographs of me and my grandma that I had never seen before, fragments of a childhood misremembered that brought tears to my eyes.
I stopped trying to associate with strangers, feeling plastic in my attempts at camaraderie and I walked outside to meditate with a tree. Crying is so much easier when I am by myself; I don’t have to worry about how my tears are effecting anyone else.
I let myself sob as I stood up and grabbed ahold of the tree; I embraced it and let myself hang from its branches. I started to climb because I wanted to be sure that I could be alone, just me and this force of nature. I climbed higher and higher until I was perched on top of the world and I could let the tree hold me as I let the sobs wrack through my body. “This is the perfect thing to do,” I thought, as I said, “This is just so sad.”
I was crying for the loss of my family, even those still alive, maybe even especially for those still living and incapable of connecting with each other.
I cried for pointless conversations when all I wanted to do was cry.
I cried because nobody else was crying and this whole world is in pain.
I cried because nobody cared that I was gone, because nobody knows me, because nobody could see me crying.
I cried because it felt so good to be held without judgement or interrogation, to be supported by the strength of lifetimes.
I cried because that is how I let go of the expectations of what a life is supposed to look like and of the stories that have kept me company for too long.
I felt invisible.
But before too long, I had to plop back down on the earth because I missed people.
I wanted to be seen as the feeler, the one who went out to the tree to feel.
My tears are powerful.
pioneers of ourselves 