Thursday, February 28, 2013
Here is my maternal line--six generations in photos.
Somewhere in this line is the story I am supposed to tell. Multiple threads run between these women and myself--more than physical characteristics, and beyond things traditionally attributed to heredity.
It's as if from mother to mother, some work was commissioned. Hands on their young one, passing dreams and weaknesses, fears and strengths with each touch--changing the shape of the birthright as it moved through the years.
No daughter of my own, the commission must come to light through my hands another way.
Years at this, opening doors, shining light, and I still don't know how to begin. The call doesn't fade, and I never know where I will end up as I repeatedly step into secrets and hidden history. Searching for truths that were buried, weights that were borne, and brilliant flashes of happiness. I feel them with me, I know there is a need to be understood, redeemed, and loved. I know this, because I need it, too.
I may be an old woman when it happens, but someday I will hold my birthright in my hands and show you what these women gave me.