I loved the long, leisurely walks Grandmother and I would take. Midafternoons, busy with chores, Grandmother would walk up behind me, brush me on the shoulder and keep walking. That was her signal. Dusting myself off, I would run to catch up with her and off we would go.
Often these walks would turn into exercises in my learning. “Tell me” she would say and point to the Magpie perched on the drying line. And I would “tell her” what I could about that Magpie. Who that particular Magpie was, where it had come from,why it was there. Not as if studying ornithology, but as a seer. Knowing the stories, relationships and history of the birds and trees, just as I knew my own.
I must of been about twelve when Grandmother and I walked into the woods past the Listening Tree. The Listening Tree and I were long time friends. From the time I was little, too little to be in the woods alone, I had secretly passed time away from others and chores, exploring the songs and stories of the woods. I had been forbidden to go any further than that alone, ever. But that day would mark the end of my days as a child and of time wasted hiding away.
We walked, and we walked. All day we walked. Past the Lake of Legends Past, beyond bird songs and the stories of the woods, further than my little girl’s imagination had known. Although frightened, as I always was when I could feel Grandmother’s moving me into new territory, I trusted her as though we had traveled waters far more treacherous before.
It was near dark when we arrived at the mouth of a cave. Without hesitation, Grandmother stepped into the darkness, learned hard and to the right against the stone wall reaching behind a curve in the cave wall. Finding the object of her reach, she pulled back, raised her arm and struck hard against the stone. Fire. She must have hidden the flint and a torch on a previous visit anticipating our late arrival. Although I gathered from her familiar reach Grandmother must have spent a lot of time in the cave, this was a first for me and along with the cold of the damp cave, I felt the chilled air of a great unknowing that was about to settle on me.
Grandmother handed me the torch and knelt to unwrap the bundle that she had been carrying. Watching her closely, I saw inside the blanket items that would be needed if someone were going to spend a short time there. Flashes of light flew in the darkness of my youthful density and I quickly realized with a bit of mixed terror and anger that I would be staying in the cave, alone, without warning or preparation except for the bits of bread, water, a feather and the torch for light and warmth. Seeing my disappointment, if not budding resentment, Grandmother wrapped me in the blanket and assured me she would be back at first light. And that of course, she would answer all my questions when she returned. I nodded in compliance. And she left.
At that point I was more than a bit restless, a bit angry and afraid. I took the opportunity to explore the cave, at least to the point that I felt safe to, and then quickly returning to the safety of the entrance where Grandmother had left me and where I could see the flashing of the the moon’s light filter through the forest canopy. Resisting. Back and forth, resting and relaxing and then wrestling with my own fitful fires. I continued like that for quite a while. Finally having exhausted all other options I sat, reconciled to my destiny and began to settle into my skin.
Curiously I picked up the feather and began to peer into it’s depth, and walked into it’s stories and history wandering the length of it and back again. Carrying the feather I began to walk, moving and peering into the feather’s stories and listening. Resting and pausing from time to time against the solid arch of the cave wall. In what seemed a flash of moment, everything shifted. Looking out of the feather and around I noticed that I was no longer in the “cave” but in a mist layer that looked like the cave yet was not the cave. Stepping further into the misty layer, I realized I could move into yet another layer of the cave and another time, perhaps another dimension.
Four different doorways, what seemed to be four different times. I knew to watch carefully. I watched as the people who “lived here” talked with one another and went about day to day things. Seemingly completely unaware of my presence. Peering closer I could peek into the details of their conversation, into their work and closer to their stories, peering into the details of their time. Moving to what appeared to be another layer in yet another arched doorway, I glimpsed into yet another time and layer. I moved from doorway to time to place to yet another time listening, gathering stories and trying to understand the mysteries of these people and their time and place.
Who were these people and why were they here? Where did they come from? What message did they bring and why? Why? Why had Grandmother brought me here. What had she wanted me to know?
But I did not wander further than I could sense the cave entry, where I felt safe. I could sense a lurking of darkness, even danger, hidden in clefts and corners that I felt too young to reach into with the same confidence that Grandmother had.
In the morning, Grandmother returned as promised. I shared with her what I had seen, the people and their stories, their history. Hearing about the arched portals and layers of time, Grandmother nodded as if first absorbing it. She must have known about the portals? How could she not have known? Why did she hide this from me? I looked in her eyes for some telling, but could not find any. Impenetrable.
Choices made between truth and silence are best left with those wiser and now gone. But with a bit more than budding resentment of a young girl, there are times that I can’t help question destiny had Grandmothers choices been different.
It’s a myth. Nuns aren’t born, they’re created. Out of the fires of hell. Truth is, all miracles are, whether we admit it or not.
Temple Freya 